


no dice

by tobylove (orphan_account)



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Big Gay Mobsters, Drugs, F/M, Im kinda rusty at it so it’s a hard maybe, Italian Mafia, Light Angst, M/M, Partners in Crime, Partners to Lovers, Sex, maybe? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-01-13 18:15:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21199967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/tobylove
Summary: Who knew that Richard Tozier could be such a pain in Eddie’s side.Or, more appropriately: my Mob Boss AU.“Unlike everybody else, he wasn’t scared of him—and that was one of the things about him that Eddie likes the most.”





	1. dangerous woman

**Author's Note:**

> y’all, i have so many cool fic ideas i wanna do and this is the one i decide to devote my time to. heinous 
> 
> it’s off the cuff, like usual//
> 
> well, i hope you guys like it and stay to enjoy the show!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nobody:  
absolutely nobody:  
me, imaging eddie and adrian doing that mob boss tiktok trend: BITCH i look like i’m fresh of the runway

Mikey comes gently into the room with some really bad news. No really—says it just like that: “Um, Eddie, Adrian... I have some really bad news.”

Eddie and Adrian both look at each other. They’re both cute, short little things—but everyone in the room already knows to be scared of them, if they know what’s in their best interest. Certainly anything that Mikey says couldn’t be bad news, right? He’s as sweet as can be.

Adrian looks back over to Mikey, smiles and says: “What is it, sweetie?” And when Mikey does break down and tell them, all the color drains from his face. He’s _pissed_. For the rest of the day.

But let’s start from the beginning.

Eddie’s entire life was spent with his mother, bouncing between Queens and The Bronx. He didn’t know this until he was almost a teenager, but his Mommy—beyond any stretch that he ever thought—was a dangerous woman. He also didn’t know this, until she told him herself: her maiden name was Sonia Marino, and her entire family had ties with the Mafia—spanning back as many generations as they could remember. She was _born_ to a dangerous woman. 

But she wanted to settle down, start a family. She met a nice guy named Franklin in college, who she affectionately called Frankie. They got married. She was a Kaspbrak then—finally so removed from the life she didn’t want to live anymore. They had a son. Life was happy for her... until it wasn’t anymore. Daddy got in a terrible car accident, which killed him instantly. Mommy was beside herself. She gained weight. She was depressed. Felt like she had no meaning.

And the life just called her back. 

He remembers her coming home many a time, clothes dirty and blood splattered all over her face 

(like she killed somebody).

And he remembers when he was 17 and she came up to him, grabbed him by the shoulders and said: _Eddie bear, I’m passing it all to you. You’re the next in line for the throne now. _

And he remembers not really knowing what it means.

Even if he had never come to understand, he could never ask her. Because she’s dead now. Bless her heart. 

Not really.

They met in college. His name was Adrian Meloni—but he told Eddie that he dropped the i from his last name years ago. They started out as roommates, but they quickly became the best of friends—two gay Italian kids who never really related to being Italian. They did everything together. But then, one day Adrian looked at him, dead in his eyes, smiled, and said:

“Oh, my God. I just realized... you’re Sonia Marino’s son.”

“And you’re Andrew Meloni’s,” Eddie had responded. And both of them figured out that strings were pulled to make them roommates for a reason. And neither one of them directly brought it up again. 

Because they both knew what it all meant.

As for now:

Eddie and Adrian seem to have the whole world wrapped around their fingers. So many things that people do are tied up in them. Well, most of them are illegal—but illegal deeds make the world go round. Drug transactions, money laundering—shit, even some business on the Black Market and the Deep Web. They do it all. They’ve got so many celebrity clients who come and seek out their most potent merchandise. 

And don’t even worry about the cops. Because honestly, most of those no-good crooks are some of their best clients. They sit there with their holier-than-thou justice blah-blah-blah, when they kill people for fun. Eddie and Adrian don’t do that. They kill people with _purpose_.

And they just picked up where their parents left off. It’s kinda sweet, in a way. Mr. Drew was Mommy’s ex-boyfriend. Their parents worked hard for them to be able to do this.

So whenever Mikey tells them that 

“Who stole it?”

Somebody stole some of their merchandise—not _some_,_ a lot_ of it—he can’t help but to be a... little angry. 

“I’m not sure yet,” Mikey says apologetically. “I’m still working on it. But I have suspicion that it could’ve been two separate people.”

“Two separate... well, how much did they take?”

“It all values out to half a million dollars.”

Eddie and Adrian both blurt out in unison. _“Half a million dollars!?”_

“Yeah,” Mikey reiterates, and looks down at the ground.

“How much more intel do you need to find out who they are?”

“I’m almost done.”

“Well, when you figure out who they are, can you do a favor for me?” Eddie says sweetly. “Find out where they live and take care of them for us.”

“Yes, sir,” Mikey says. When he looks up, his eyes are dark and full of loyalty.

* * *

Eddie’s pacing around his and Adrian’s office—the two large pictures Mommy and Dad hang proud; their eyes seem to follow him.

Have people done this to them before? Yeah, of course—they’ve taken a couple thousand dollars of merchandise, or tried to rough up one of his and Adrian’s people. All you gotta do with those type of folks is rough _them_ up a little. But he’s at a loss now. Never has somebody been so cunning—or _dumb enough_—to take $500,000 worth of their product.

“What the fuck are we gonna do, Dree? This is _terrible!_” 

Mommy’s eyes follow him more: _You _suck_ at this, Eddie bear. Just plain ole awful. You’re not cut out for this—I’m so disappointed in you._

Adrian is the only person he’ll allow to see him in such a state—and Adrian’s used to it by now to the point where he knows what to do. He walks over (in his crisp pink suit), and gently grabs Eddie by the shoulders—metaphorically and literally stopping him in his tracks.

“It’s gonna be okay, hun,” Adrian says. “Don’t worry your pretty little head off about it!” He’s always been so bright and cheery; his sunniness tries to rival Mikey’s. “Do _I_ look worried? No. I’m not fucked up at all. Because we can fix this!”

“But—”

“And stop all that pacing; you’re getting your suit wrinkled.”

Eddie relaxes a little. “Okay. But how are we gonna fix this?”

“Hmm, I dunno.” Adrian suddenly grins. “We can get Donnie to take care of them.”

“We are _not_ getting your assassin boyfriend to take out a couple of Losers.” 

Adrian pouts a little. “Well, you can’t say I didn’t try!” Eddie chuckles a little, and Adrian beams. 

“Just promise me one thing, Ed: you will _absolutely not_ go after these people on your own.” He pauses a little. “Blood is really hard to get outta white, ya know.”

“Most of the suit is black, Dree.”

“Okay. And? Just still don’t do it.”

Eddie scoffs. “Are you scared for me or something? Is that why you don’t want me to go?”

And Adrian scoffs back. “Girl, no. I just don’t want your clothes to get dirty. And if it were me...” he looks down at his hands, inspecting them. “I wouldn’t want to break a nail.”

This finally pulls a full-on laugh from Eddie. “Bitch, you are _so_ dramatic.” 

And while Adrian is still giggling, Mikey (gently) knocks on the door again—and when he gets the invitation, lets himself in.

“Eddie, Adrian,” he politely addresses them one by one, taking the time to look them both in the eyes and kiss the tops of both of their hands. “The investigation’s done! I’ve identified the culprits. Well, _culprit_, singular—but he has a roommate.”

“Poor roomie,” Adrian sulks, but he doesn’t seem actually too upset at all.

But Mikey’s eyebrows furrow. He puts his hand on his chest. “I _know_. I feel bad. ‘Cause now they’re _both_ in this shit.” 

“Just ignore him,” Eddie says (and grins at Adrian’s mock offense). “What’s the name of our lucky guy? And I want the name of the roommate, too, if you have it.”

“Richard Tozier is our winner,” Mikey says, with a smile. “And Stanley Uris is the roommate. They live on 3429 Forrester Drive, Apt. 218. But if it’s any consolation... I _really_ think our boy Stan didn’t do anything.” 

Adrian giggles, and starts off with a tease—but then changes his mind completely. 

“You’re probably just saying that because you think he—wait... they sound familiar.”

Eddie thinks so, too. That can’t possibly be it, right? It can’t be the same people. Richard and Stanley are pretty common names, he reckons... but Tozier and Uris are last names that people tend to remember. If these are the people he fucking thinks it is, then _now_ he’s going to have to personally take offense to this. But there’s only one way to find out... and Adrian already beats him to the punch.

“Eddie, no. Stop it! Your suit, remember? You promised!”

“I’ll change into a different suit,” he says. And then he looks up at Mikey; pretty brown eyes that look so sweet and trusting, and confused. And he says: 

“I changed my mind, Mikey. Don’t worry about this. I’ll take care of these clowns my fuckin’ self.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adrian: this man straight up looked me dead in my eyes and lied to my face :-(


	2. richie needs a prayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *tw for a bit of violence!*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh we’re only two chapters in and rich already got his ass beat. phenomenal

Richie barges into his and Stan’s apartment with some really good news. No really—says it almost exactly like that, verbatim: “Holy fuck Stan. I’ve got some _really_ good news, dude.”

Stan—probably used to his antics by now—comes up and regards him and the thing he has in his arms wordlessly. For now. They’re both tall, lanky things, so they have to careen over this thing so Richie can open it up and show its contents. It’s a suitcase. And what’s in it makes Stan audibly gasp, say one single sentence:

“Oh, my fucking God.”

And he seems pretty pissed at Richie, really apprehensive, a little scared, for the rest of the day... but Richie can see that his eyes are still filled with hope and wonderment. And the filthy green of greed. 

It’s _perfect_.

But let’s just start from the beginning.

Richie’s from California. Him and his folks grew up in really rough parts—and let’s just say that it shaped his whole future. Just because they grew up dirt poor does _not_ mean that his parents didn’t want him and his little sister to go to college. Richie’s smart; he got scholarships. He majored in Mass Communication, which his parents hated—but that’s what he wanted to do. That’s what he _loves_ to do. He wants to work in radio, or be a comedian. He thinks he’s funny. He likes to make people laugh.

He also likes to sell drugs.

He met Stan in college. Stan’s really analytical—he cut the purest, most potent shit Richie had ever seen on their side of the tracks. And he was _gorgeous_. 

Their relationship started out strictly business: Richie sold the drugs, Stan supplied them, that was that. But then a lot of things got messy... they crossed the line, started fooling around. Broke up, lost touch, both fell out of the game. 

And Richie tried to get his shit together. 

He focused on school, got a degree—tried to rid his mind of Stan and Bill and all the other pretty boys. He moved into his own place, met a girl named Sandra. They “fell in love”

(what a _hoax_). 

He proposed to her. She said yes. They were so happy. He thought that his _sicknesses_, as his father called them, were cured... 

And then Sandra fucking went and cheated on him. 

He was so lost and depressed. School and work were stressful. He was chain smoking again. He didn’t feel like he was funny—and quite frankly, he was ready to go and jump off the nearest available bridge. If he wasn’t funny, then what the _fuck_ was he good for?

He lost weight. He cried all the time. He felt like he had no meaning.

And the life just called him back.

As for now:

He’s so glad that he didn’t burn bridges with Stan. Because he’s actually the best friend that he’s ever had... even if their friendship doesn’t have the best foundation. They reconnected a couple of years ago, and now they live in this well-to-do apartment together. And they’re strictly friends. _Really_. They got all that romantic shit out of the way years ago, to the point where it’s awkward when they even talk about it now. But he’d be a fool if he tried to deny that Stan is still gorgeous. And that’s his problem:

He _loves_ pretty boys.

But that’s going to bite him in the ass later. For _now_, he’s worried about the suitcase.

“How did you fucking get this?” Stan asks—and when he does, it sounds less like anger and more like pure awe. “Where did you get it from?”

“It was a little gift,” he says, grins. It’s a little white lie; it wasn’t a gift at all. But that’s okay. It’s theirs’ now. You snooze, you lose, bitch. 

“A _little_ gift?” Stan echoes. He scoffs. “This has to be like, at _least_ 300 grand worth of shit.”

“Nope! Even better. _500!_”

“500? What are you gonna do with all of this?”

Richie grins at Stan, as if the answer is obvious. He says, simply: “Why, sell it, of course.”

Stan’s eyes look dark and calculating for a second... “Richie, this is ridiculous.” But they lighten up when he smiles a bit. We’re gonna be _rich_.”

“You fucking _know it,_ baby!” 

They both break out into huge smiles.

Speaking of babies—this was like taking candy from one. It’s the easiest shit he’s ever stolen. He had happened to be leaving the club when he saw a man lounging around with a couple of suitcases. So naturally, he went up and struck a conversation. 

“Hey, man. What’s got you with those suitcases this late at night?”

The guy regards him with a cold indifference—almost to signify a _why the fuck is this guy talking to me?_ demeanor. Richie’s not a dumb guy, and he was pretty sure some guy, dressed in all black, carrying black suitcases at night, was up to no good. So something good had to be in those fucking cases. He just had to take one from him.

He had a spark of inspiration: he broke his eye contact from the guy, looking just past his head. And he put on his best Scared Face, and _screamed_, as loud as he possibly could; said the first name that popped in his head. _“Freddie! No!”_

And he must’ve struck a nerve. He’s never seen somebody jerk their head back so fast before—the guy swiveled his head so fast behind him, that his whole body was almost facing in the other direction. And while the guy was looking for whoever it was... Richie yanked the suitcase from his hands; ran as fast as he could and didn’t look back.

His only regret is not taking both of them.

* * *

The body glitter that he has on twinkles in the warm pink lights. He’s been able to sell half of the suitcase for twice the price they took it for, and people just keep coming back. That shit must be _the truth._ So him and Stan wanted to celebrate by going to a party. 

They’re at one of Bill’s parties, their friend from college—and he’s playing so much music that Richie likes. They start playing Sofi Needs a Ladder, his favorite Deadmau5 song. He’s drinking a little, having a good time. He’s lost Stan in the crowd—but that’s okay. As long as they’re both having fun. 

And this is where the problem comes to bite him in the ass.

He sees a pretty boy.

He’s absolutely _stunning_. He’s a brunet, exactly his type—he’s short, but he looks nice and fit in stature. He’s wearing leggings, and the pink lights make his Coca-Cola crop-top look burgundy. And he has the _prettiest_ smile. He beckons with a finger and mouths: “Come here.”

Richie has to be told exactly once. 

He’s already a little tipsy—so that, coupled with his general disposition makes him stumble out, “What’s a sexy little thing like you doing here alone?”

The pretty boy giggles. “Same thing you are.”

“Well, I’m sure we can keep each other company, baby. What’s your name?”

“It’s Eddie.

_[“Freddie! No!”]_

What’s yours?” 

“I’m Richie,” he says. Stupidly points out his thumbs and points to himself.

“Well, Richie,” the pretty boy starts—putting his index finger in between his teeth, still all smiles. “I’m not used to directness like this. I like a man that knows what he wants.”

And Eddie leans on his tiptoes, presses his body up against his, whispers in his ear: “Because _I’m_ a man that knows what he wants, too.”

One single thought crosses Richie’s mind

(this feels _off_)

before he lets Eddie grab his hand and lead him anyway. 

They head to the bathroom, the music even louder and reverberating off the walls from inside. Eddie twirls around to face him, still all smiles, still looking beautiful. He allows himself to melt, allows himself to put his hands on Eddie’s waist.

“I feel like I’ve met you before,” Richie says suddenly. No, really—a guy as pretty as Eddie you don’t forget, but he really does think they’ve seen in each other in passing before. Eddie raises his eyebrows, even cocks his head.

“Yeah, you _do_ look familiar,” he says. He drops all pretenses of a smile, his eyes beginning to look stormy and threatening. 

“Ed—”

And before he can even think another thought of _“this feels off”_, Eddie’s already ground his foot as hard as he can into his to bend him over, twisted his arm against his back, grabbed him by the hair and clanged his face against the bathroom sink. When Eddie lets him go, he slinks to the ground—his vision already feeling blurry, his nose already feeling like it’s bleeding. 

_[you like to think I can't figure you out, but the tables have turned]_

“You look like the guy who stole my fuckin’ drugs,” Eddie clarifies—and he puts one of his feet on Richie’s chest. “So tell me, baby—what did you do with them?”

“I sold them all,” Richie says, a little dazed.

But that’s _not_ the answer Eddie wanted to hear. Eddie grounds his foot into his chest, and he coughs. “Don’t get smart with me.”

_[what goes around comes around, you're about to get burned] _

It feels like some of his ribs are cracking underneath the pressure of Eddie’s boot, and he coughs some more. Strangely, he manages a smile. “Okay, okay, you caught me. I only sold half.”

Eddie takes his boot off his chest, releases the pressure—but then he gets down low on the ground with Richie, and does something weird. He straddles him, like they’re having sex and Eddie’s in cowgirl. Richie can see a bare strip of skin below the crop top, splattered with freckles. In a sick and twisted way, he’s a little turned on. Terrified, yes... but his dick speaks louder than his brain. 

_[you’re just too sweet ‘til you get on my nerves and hurt like cavity]_

Eddie’s smiling—a dazed smile and glossy eyes and messy hair, like he’s basking in the afterglow of an orgasm 

_[you left a bad taste in my mouth, my sour patch kid]. _

“You know, I _was_ gonna kill you,” Eddie is saying—and when he presses his hands (gently) on Richie’s chest, the latter doesn’t want his heartbeat to betray his face on how panicked he is. 

”But I don’t kill the cute ones.”

“Oh, yeah?” Richie grins. He doesn’t know why he’s still flirting—maybe it’s because he can feel how hard he is through his skinny jeans, and he can feel Eddie’s own hardness pressing through his leggings, pressing on his own. 

“Mmhmm,” Eddie nods, still basking in that afterglow 

_[i can be your new favorite waste of time, and you'll be mine]_

and he leans in to kiss him on the cheek. And then he whispers in Richie’s ear—the tone sweet and flirty, but the connotation of the words dripping like his bloody nose. “But you _better_ have my fuckin’ shit by Wednesday, Rich. Byeee.”

_[all I want is your attention, it's all the same thing]_

And with that, he gets up, fixes the wrinkles in his clothes, and leaves the bathroom. And Richie, on the bathroom floor—blood mixing with body glitter.

He winces, trying to roll over to his side and coughing painfully; giving up. He’s somehow able to reach into his pocket and go to his contacts, with shaking hands. And he sends the best text he can, despite the pain: 

**rich the bitch:** hey stan please come help me

**Stan the Man:** ??????

**rich the bitch:** i’m in the bathroom

He lays there, breathing raggedly, biting his tongue to not moan out in pain for what seems like forever—but then he hears clicking, like tap toes running on the tiled floor. Or Oxfords. The bathroom door swings open. Stan makes a strangled noise, in between a scream and a groan—and Richie can’t help but to laugh. Even if it makes him cough, every one hurting his ribs.

_[are you in? What's it gonna be?] _

“Hey,” is all he says. 

Wordlessly,

_[don’t roll with the punches, make it hard for me, baby]_

Stan helps him off the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Richie: that was kinda hot  
Stan: *buries his head in the palms of his hands*


	3. i like it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh he’s so handsome what’s his name? 
> 
> would this be considered a double upload ahdvjs

Eddie can say one thing: he’s never felt this polarized in his entire life. One one hand, he’s angry, and still very very pissed—but at least the party was fun. He hasn’t been to one in a while. And he didn’t even have to do much to lure Richard over to him—the idiot came to him without much effort at all. Who knew all you had to do was bat your eyelashes at a boy and he’ll do anything you want?

But it’s still so damn... _weird_. He was going to stomp the motherfucker’s heart out, quite literally—and he still had the audacity to _smile_. He wasn’t scared at all. And a single thought crosses Eddie, that makes him so wired up—but he can’t differentiate if it’s wiring because he’s mad or because he’s horny. 

(a challenge. he was challenging you)

And, with growing dismay (that makes his entire face contort into a grimace), he realizes: 

He _liked_ it.

And he can tell that bastard liked it, too.

You see, it’s really embarrassing to admit—but something about that damn moron excites him. Unlike everybody else, he isn’t scared of him—and that’s what excites Eddie the most. _Challenge_ is the exact word that he would describe this as. Richard would be a challenge—but he didn’t mind that. It was actually kind of...

Fun.

And that’s where the opposite end of the pole would come from: today, _he_ would have the upper hand. And that makes him _so damn happy._ So happy, he could get off to the idea of it. Richard had the upper hand before, even if he wasn’t aware he did—he stole from him, unnerved him, shook him a little. _But oh no, sweetheart._ He won’t have the upper hand anymore. Eddie wants to win this game.

And he will.

He’s going to lure Richard right back to him.

Him and Adrian are sitting in their office—Eddie underneath Mommy’s picture, Adrian underneath Mr. Drew’s—waiting on their guests to arrive. He can barely contain his excitement. He can’t fucking _wait_ to see Richard’s face. His wretched, scared, _terrified_, handsome face. He has to put his hands up to his chest to try to slow down his beating heart, bite his lip—already thinking of how many times he’s going to come tonight, replaying Richard’s pleas and ugly crying in his head; maybe his screams.

“How much _longer?_” Adrian whines. Eddie knows that Adrian would be twirling around if they had swiveling chairs. “I’m tired of waiting! I wanna see Donnie.”

“They should here in a little bit,” Eddie reassures him—then, just for teasing: “You’re just _dying_ to be fucked, huh? Desperate bitches these days.”

Adrian laughs and sticks his tongue out. “Bitch, shut up. You’re just mad because you’re not getting any.” 

_Not for long,_ Eddie wants to say. Stops himself because he knows it’s stupid. 

Not too long after Adrian’s complaining, Mikey (gently) comes in the door; a little slower than what he normally does—and despite this whole ordeal, he still has a big smile on his face. “Special delivery!” he chirps.

And it’s a _very_ special delivery indeed.

Mikey comes in carrying him bridal style. He’s impeccably dressed—a button-down dress shirt and slim-legged slacks and Oxfords with dress socks. His hair, curly and sweaty, is sticking to his forehead. His head is slumped into Mikey’s chest. And he’s very pretty. But Eddie and Adrian can both see his deep, even breathing, which means one thing:

Mikey punked out.

“I know you guys wanted him gone, but I just gave him the gas instead,” Mikey says—already blushing with his vague justification, eyes already cast to the ground out of guilt. “He, uh... he seems really sweet. And he really didn’t have any part in this—”

“Mikey,” Eddie says.

“—And I figured it’d be better if he were still alive in case we could—”

Eddie laughs. “Mikey... it’s okay.” 

He sees Mikey’s shoulders visibly relax—and then go over to the couch in the office and lightly lay Uris down on it. He even pulls out a blanket and covers him, sits on the edge of the couch, brushes his hair out of his face. And when he looks back up at Eddie and Adrian, he seems almost in a trance.

“Oh, okay. I’m sorry, I just didn’t want you guys to be mad at me.”

“We could never be mad at you, Mikey,” Adrian grins—and Eddie smiles too, because he’s inclined to agree.

Mikey smiles back.

It seems as if everybody is attuned to the same schedule—because Bev and Don come next. Both of them are sporting their usual all-black attires. But today must be special. Bev has her hair sprawled out over her shoulders instead of in her usual bun.

Don, as always, addresses them warmly, but formally: “Hey, Eddie. Looking as dashing as ever. And _hello_, my prince.” And Adrian blushes and giggles like a girl.

“Hi, sweetheart!”

Bev, God bless her, addresses them in her much more _informal_ fashion that they’ve come to love: “Wassup, Mafia Bros! How’s it hanging?” Then, she looks over to the couch and points, and asks, “Is that Tozier?”

“Nah, it’s Uris,” Eddie tells her. “But I’ve just called Tozier. He should be showing up any minute now.”

She grins. “_Ohhh_. Doing like, a kidnapper-y type situation?”

“We weren’t _supposed_ to,” Adrian chimes in, and teasingly cuts his eyes to Mikey, still on the couch. But he doesn’t even seem to notice, or hear—he’s rubbing Uris’s shoulder, cooing over his unconscious body: “I’m so sorry. It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

“Oh, you guys are gonna love this,” Bev suddenly says, her eyes getting wide with excitement. “If taking Uris isn’t enough, then Don and I here did a little digging. He’s got two more really close friends: William Denbrough and Benjamin Hanscom. We can wipe ‘em both out.”

Eddie and Adrian both talk together. “Oh, I like—”

“No we can’t, Bev,” Don interjects, and turns his head towards her in dismay. “They don’t have anything to do with this. That’s not fair.”

“Well, Uris doesn’t either, does he?” 

And maybe, just maybe, everybody _is_ working on the same schedule—because the man that Eddie _really_ wants to see comes slowly through the door; carrying a suitcase, looking nervous and almost afraid.

* * *

He sees Eddie and fucking smiles. _Again_. He puts the suitcase on the ground, not taking his eyes off him. “Hey, Eddie.”

“Hello, Richie.”

Then, once the dumbass is able to put his horniness aside for more than ten seconds, he looks around the room and says, incredibly: “Shit, is there a party?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says cheerfully, never uncrossing his legs. “We’re gonna celebrate killing you if you don’t have our fuckin’ drugs.”

“And I’m sure Roomie over there knows how to party,” Adrian adds, gleefully nodding his head over to the couch. 

And that’s when Eddie gets it: that dopamine rush from the glint of panic he sees flash in Richie’s eyes.

_“Stan!”_

He tries to rush over to the couch, but Don and Bev are quicker—they both grab one of his arms on either side and jerk him back. He winces and leans considerably over to one side, probably still healing from a boot-size bruise. Mikey doesn’t even have to snipe him.

He’s squirming in Don and Bev’s grip—but he’s not going anywhere—and he’s running his mouth again. “Okay, this isn’t funny anymore,” he says—and ironically laughs. Eddie can only guess it’s nervous laughter. “Let him go man, please. He didn’t do anything.” 

Almost as if he was Sleeping Beauty and his prince came to save him with a kiss, Uris starts to stir on the couch. He groans a little. His head probably hurts. He looks around, still groggy. He asks, “Where am I?”

“It was all me, man,” Richard is still babbling. “Stan didn’t do anything, it was all me. You can do whatever you want to me—just, _please_, let him go, man.”

Uris backs himself as far away from everybody as he can, still in the couch—his face is still otherwise deadpan, but his voice, laced with fear, gives him away. “Richie? What’s happening? Where are we?”

“Listen, Richie Rich,” Adrian starts, “we don’t want to hurt anybody. We _really_ don’t. Like, not hurting you guys would be ideal. But if you don’t give us our drugs, or at least reimburse us with _something_, then Stanny here is going to take another nap and not wake up.”

Uris isn’t even trying to hide it anymore. “_What? No! _Please don’t hurt me,” he stammers, his voice wavering—and big, fat tears spill from his eyes in streams. Eddie _almost_ feels bad. 

Almost.

Richard nervously cuts his eyes over to Don, then Bev, then Don again. “Is it alright if you guys let me go, maybe?”

“If you try to pull anything, you’re both dead,” Don warns. Richard laughs again—a shaky one, but a laugh nevertheless. 

“I’ll behave, I swear.” 

They let him go.

He walks slowly over to Eddie and Adrian, a stupid smile plastered on his face; his hands up in a surrender the whole time. “Okay, listen...” he looks to Adrian. “What’s your name?”

“Adrian,” is his answer—and Eddie gets to see the rare sight of Adrian’s entire face, dark and devoid of emotion.

“Okay, Adrian,” Richard says, still smiling, his hands still up. “How about I cut you guys a deal? You let Stan go; you can do whatever you want to me. But I’ll make up the loss, _I swear._”

“But that just won’t _work_, Richie,” Eddie says, his words still dripping with flirtation, his chin now resting on his intertwined fingers. “‘Cause then you won’t learn your fuckin’ lesson. You gotta have _something_ to lose. That’s how you learn that we’re serious.

I mean. It can either be Stan, or her.”

On cue, Adrian pulls out a picture of a pretty dark-haired girl, a little younger than everybody in the room—maybe only by a couple of years. She’s bright-eyed and smiling.

And there it is again—Eddie’s eyes flash with something bright himself when _Richie’s_ eyes flash with out-right panic, that not even any of his stupid quips can hide. That’s sweet, in a lot of ways—the only way to get under Richard Tozier’s skin isn’t to threaten _him_—he couldn’t give a shit less about that—it’s to threaten people that he cares about. It’s almost poetic.

Bev and Don rush back over to him and have him pinned again in a second. He’s thrashing uncontrollably. 

_“No! McKenzie!” _

Eddie grins. “She’s pretty, by the way. You guys look just alike.”

“What did you fucking do to her? That’s my little sister, man! Let go! _Let me the fuck go!_”

“We didn’t do anything to her...” Eddie says. “...Yet. But we will, if you don’t repay us what you fuckin’ owe.”

Finally, _finally_, his bravado is cracked. He joins Uris in pathetic crying—his lip quivers, and tears start to spill out, black with eyeliner and mascara. Mmm, it’s _so good._ Eddie wants to wash himself in the feeling. _Drown_ in it. 

“That’s my little sister.”

“Aww, don’t cry,” Eddie coos, even furrowing his eyebrows in a faux sympathy. “You should feel lucky, Richie, really. I like you. And I don’t like just anybody. So we’re willing to cut you a deal.”

And, sickly, strangely, surprisingly—with black tears still running down his face... _this motherfucker smiles._

“And _I’m_ willing to cut _you_ one.”

Eddie is genuinely surprised 

(this fucking _cunt_ always has the upper hand on me he’s _always_ one step ahead I _hate_ him I love it).

His eyebrows furrow together—and he doesn’t even have to look at Adrian to know that he’s wearing a twin expression of shock. 

“What?” he says, flatly.

He’s grinning now, showing his pretty white teeth. “I bet you’re just dying to find out.” 

Eddie sighs, his temple already beginning to throb—and he waves his hand dismissively. “Let him go.”

Bev and Don wordlessly follow his instructions, eyes fixated on him and Adrian for their next move. And Adrian’s eyes are fixated on _him_. Richie tries to wipe his face in vain, but the tear lines have already stained his face. 

“Well?” Eddie cocks his head. “What is it? And it _better_ not be any of your stupid shit.”

Richard nods his head towards the door to the thing that Eddie forgot he even brought. “It’s in the suitcase,” he says simply.

“Mikey, bring it to us.”

As silent as the night, Mikey gets off the couch, walks over and grabs the suitcase, and puts it on the desk, in one swift movement. When he opens it, Eddie and Adrian both shake their heads in confusion. 

It’s wads and wads of $100 bills, all neatly rubber-banded together. 

“What _is_ this?” Eddie asks, feeling uncomfortable with emotions he hasn’t felt in a long time. “What are you trying to pull?” 

He can’t read Richard. 

_Why can’t he read him?_

And then—in _another_ shock to add to the list of surprises that he has up his sleeve—Richard drops down to his knees, scoots over, and grabs Eddie’s hands. Eddie can see Adrian trying and failing to hide his disgust at this desperate display... but an amused little smile is etched onto Eddie’s face. Richard’s groveling at his feet. He likes it when men grovel. 

No—he _loves_ it.

“Eddie, baby, listen,” Richard is saying—fresh, black tears streaming down his face. But weirdly, he’s all smiles. “We had so much fun together. At the party. You like me. You _said so. _And look—look at that.”

His eyes dart up to the suitcase—the one that Adrian and their people are still gawking at.

“That’s $2 million in there,” Richard clarifies. “I made _2 million dollars_ off that case. It’s obvious I know my shit. I flipped it. _Quadrupled_ it. And it’s all yours’. You guys can have it.” He tilts his head to the side, smiling, teasingly. “But. You can only have it _iiiiiiif_...”

“If _what?_” Eddie says, almost snaps. 

“You guys put us on your team.” 

“What?” Uris says, finally speaking up again—his voice devoid of any sign he was crying (and begging for his life) even ten minutes ago. Now, he just sounds angry. “Don’t rope me anymore into this shit—”

“Stan’s the best supplier I’ve _ever_ _seen_,” he rambles on. “He can cut shit like yours.” And, when he adds the next part, he winks. “Maybe even better. Imagine what the two of us can for you guys.” 

Uris seems like he wants to object—but he’s as sharp as he dresses, so he keeps his mouth shut. He seems to know what Richard is trying to weasel his way into, and he’s too smart to try and tell him no again.

“Deal?” Richard says, raising his eyebrows—and there are so many things that Adrian looks towards Eddie for guidance. But Adrian is older than him, and he’s always seen him as a big brother, something he’s never had... so now, Eddie’s eyes are fixated on _him_, wide and patient. 

And crazily enough, Adrian laughs. The sound cuts through the now otherwise empty office, filled with bated breath. “You’re fucking _crazy_, Tozier. I like it. It’s a deal.”

Then, Adrian looks at him with the same need for guidance that Eddie seeks from him: “I’m just waiting for Eddie to give the okay.”

Richard, through the magnification of his glasses, looks up at him with his pretty brown eyes. “Eddie Spaghetti?”

Eddie sighs. His temple throbs. But he rolls his eyes, shakes his head, and says, simply: “Deal.”

And Richard beams as he brings Eddie’s hands up to his tear-stained face, and kisses them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Richie: *pulls out an Uno reverse card* no u ;-)  
Eddie: *pulls out a silencer, ready to shoot his ass* I swear to fuckin god


	4. bad romance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *leans into the mic like i’m in an asmr video* welcome to....... toby’s....... late night uploads

You want to know the best thing? Richie _really_ wasn’t expecting his little plan to work. What he was expecting was for Eddie and Adrian to kill him on the spot—or even worse, Stan, or even McKenzie. If his plan wouldn’t have worked—if even one person wasn’t feeling an ounce of empathy that day, had a trigger finger, or he said the wrong thing... he would’ve lost them.

What he _was_ expecting was for maybe his plan to work—but Eddie and Adrian take their suitcase full of money, and laugh him and Stan both right out the door. And they’d be alive. Which is the most important thing—but it still would’ve sucked a little.

But this is an entirely different (and marginally better) outcome. All he had to do was cry and suck up a little to them and now he and Stan have job security. Heh, that’s chuckalicious. “Job” security, isn’t that funny?

And kissing Eddie’s hands and begging at his feet wasn’t the worst thing, really. He’s not above groveling. Besides, Eddie seemed to like it, the little minx. He even seemed like he was getting off to it.

Weirdo.

[but yes, his tears were real.]

He’s whistling for the rest of the week. This has been a cakewalk. He and Stan have been really busy bees—the former truly has gotten back into his beautiful knack of cutting product, and Richie has been selling it for him, just like they’d promised. It seemed like both Eddie and Adrian had their doubts about how good they’d be at this—but if there’s three things that Richie’s _great_ at, and he highly values, it’d be these:

1.) being funny,

2.) selling drugs, and 

3.) having charisma.

People eat this shit out of his hands like it’s going out of style because he’s good at it. He’s lively, he’s personable, he’s charismatic. People love him—and apparently, in this short period of time, have been requesting him more than Eddie and Adrian’s other dealer. Which doesn’t make the dealer with seniority too happy. 

But it makes everybody else happy. Good yard.

They’ve been spending a lot of time at what he’s affectionate named the Headquarters—but when they’re not there, they like to kick it back at their apartment. He’s whistling still. Stan is on his phone—vigorously typing, taking time to smile a little.

“What’s got _you_ in such a good mood?” he asks, grinning—and Stan looks up from his phone.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Who ya texting?” 

Richie raises his eyebrows, and Stan follows suit as well as roll his eyes. “Mike. You are _so nosy.”_

“Mike? Like the assassin?”

“He’s not an assassin, Rich. He’s the intel guy.”

Richie giggles a little. “Wait. The big buff black dude?”

“Yeah,” Stan says; blushes and bites his lip a little. “He’s really sweet.”

Now it’s a full-on laugh. “‘Sweet’. You know he _roofied you,_ right?”

Stan rolls his eyes again. “It wasn’t rophynol, it was chloroform.”

_“How is that any better!?”_

“Well he had to do it for his job!” Stan is starting to go into a long, drawn-out explanation, which only means one thing. “He was supposed to fucking _kill_ me! But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. And he was the only person that was nice to me. _And_, whenever I was crying, he squeezed my hand and told me everything was going to be okay. And he called me an angel. He’s a really good dude.”

He likes Mike.

Like, romantically.

Well, he guesses he can’t really say too much—because Stan is already looking at him like he wants to add: _He was consoling me __while _you_ were wanting to make out with his boss._ But Stan doesn’t say anything—and neither does he, because he hates it when Stan is right. He sees that bastard’s mouth curl up into a little smirk. Both of them understand, even if they’re completely silent.

* * *

Richie has to admit that he thinks that Eddie and Adrian’s office is just a _tad bit _creepy. It’s got a pretty dark color scheme, there are weapons everywhere—and they’ve got those huge ass pictures of some buff ass dude and a huge ass lady

[that must be Eddie’s mom.]

And the office is huge—the ceiling seems like it’s high up in the clouds; the walls seem like they expand outwards forever and ever.

He actually came to the Headquarters without Stan today, solely because he was requested. They usually come together—after being rough-housed by everybody, they’ve all been very hospitable, but there’s still safety in numbers. You never know. He’s always looked up every handful of times he’s been in the office, up to the ceiling in wonderment—and Adrian always laughs.

“Are you _ever_ gonna get used to that? We get it; it’s a high-ass ceiling.”

“At least you know,” Richie responds with his wide grin. “And yeah, probably not.”

“Well—you’re tall; don’t hit your head, since we’re on the subject of it,” Adrian says. It’s a dumb ass joke, and he makes himself giggle (even as Richie is trying to process what he said). “But _anyway_. I bet you’re wondering why we asked you to come here. It wasn’t me—it was Eddie.”

Richie actually crosses his hands over his chest in genuine surprise. “Eddie Spaghetti? He asked for _me?_”

“Yeah, duh,” Adrian says, and he smirks. “He’s smitten for you, y’know.”

“He’s—?”

“Oh yeah! Congratulations on your productivity! You’re the best dealer we’ve had in a long time. We’re gonna have to do something nice for you, boo.”

Richie flushes a little, flustered. “Aww, _thanks! _But wait. He’s _smitten_ for me?”

Adrian cocks his head to the side. “What, you couldn’t tell? The way he looks at you. Talks about you all the time, too. _‘Oh, Richie this. Oh, Richie that.’ _Can’t get him to shut up, actually. He even moaned your name in his sleep. Shit, I haven’t seen him this sprung since Juanito’s ass.”

“Moaned my—he actually talks about—wait, _who the hell is Juanito!?_”

“You should go see what he wants,” Adrian says, and giggles—completely ignoring his (incomplete) line of questioning. 

He finds Eddie in a different part of the Headquarters, a different office—and he looks insanely intimidating (as well as sexy) in an all-black suit, like he wore the other day. He glances up from whatever he was doing to look up at him.

“Richie. I—”

He walks up to Eddie with a stride and pushes him up against the wall—and to be quite honest, this is another one of those situations where he’s taking a huge gamble. But—he thinks with equal parts of growing dismay as well as amusement—this is one of the gambles that he’s willing to take. He just wants to know how this is going to turn out. He wanted to do it at the party, he wants to do it now—shit, he even wanted to do it the day he thought he was going to lose it all.

He pushes Eddie up against the wall and kisses him. 

And instead of beating his ass like he did at the party, this time Eddie melts into it with a little _“mmph”._ Instead of grabbing Richie’s hair in fistfuls to slam him against a sink, his fingers are gentle (and slightly trembling) as he tangles his fingers in that same hair. Like the party, Richie’s hands are trailing down to Eddie’s waist and rubbing there. And _unlike_ the party, the latter reciprocates—enthusiastically—by hiking one of his legs on Richie’s side, pressing their bodies together.

Richie breaks the kiss to trail down Eddie’s neck and kiss there—and he feels the hiked-up leg try to pull him in impossibly closer, feels both of their hardnesses rubbing against each other, like they did on the bathroom floor. And he hears huffing and groaning and breathy words in the form of _“Richie... I...”_ But Eddie never gets the words out. They hang in the air and die there. And they both seem okay with that.

That hiked-up leg joins in another to wrap around a waist, and Richie finishes the position seamlessly—he picks Eddie up and sits him on the office desk. Eddie’s got that glazed-over look in his eyes that Richie’s sure he’s seen before—and instead of looking fiery and intimidating, he looks innocent and excited, like it’s his first time.

“Take it off,” Richie demands, gesturing and tuxedo coat that Eddie has on and the shirt underneath it. He’s not used to giving orders, and it’s _definitely_ not an obligation for Eddie to follow them—but wordlessly, with a smile and those glazed-over eyes, Eddie strips them both off.

Their mouths collide again—a messy affair that has them fumbling and breathless when Richie finally pulls away. And he pulls away to pull something out of his pocket: two condoms, each enclosed in a different brightly-colored wrapper.

Eddie raises his eyebrows; his usual edge dripping back into his voice. “_Two_ condoms? Seriously?”

“Protection is sexy,” Richie says, and he grins.

Eddie was probably thinking that the two of them were either going to make out or fuck, no in-between. But Richie likes to be a _gentleman,_ when he can—so foreplay seems to be forever in his favor. It’s a fan favorite that he used to do all the time:

Frotting.

He slides the wrapper off one of the condoms and puts it on the length of Eddie’s shaft—but, before he even has time to do the same to his, Eddie already has the other condom in his hand. 

“Don’t tell anybody about this,” he warns, as a preface. 

He takes it out the wrapper, puts it in his mouth, and uses his mouth to slide it all the way down the length of Richie

(like in the pornos).

_“H-Holy shit,”_ Richie stammers. To be honest, he wasn’t expecting things to go this way. But is he ever? Because again—with Eddie and his crew, life can go any fucking way they want it to.

Eddie looks up from his workmanship with big doe eyes... but when he does, he says: “Don’t act surprised. Just shut up and fuck me.”

But (and he thinks this with a huge grin on his face) Richie has the upper-hand in this. He gently lays Eddie further on the table. And, still grinning, he says, “Nuh-uh-uh. Not so fast, eager beaver.”

Eddie furrows his eyebrows. “The _fuck_ do you mean?”

“Shhh. It’s okay; it’ll be fun,” he answers. He wraps one hand around the both of their shafts, and strokes them lightly. He can feel Eddie’s elbows wobbling a little.

“You are _so fuckin’_...” but then Eddie trails off—and like before, let’s the insult die in the air in favor for an “Ahh...”

“Do you like it?” Richie asks cheekily. He’s grinning. He’s winning their game.

“Shut up,” Eddie mumbles, again—but his entire face is flushing to a lovely red. “Don’t stop.” 

And that’s _all_ that Richie needs to hear.

Quickening the pace is, of course, a great thing for the both of them. Eddie’s holding onto his shoulders; both of their puffs and breathy groans fall in sync. And with facing each other, they’re still able to kiss and explore and nibble on each other’s lips. And necks. Richie buries his head there, nibbles a little too hard to see how far he stretch the envelope—but what he gets in return is his shirt being balled in fistfuls and louder groans. That’s gonna leave a hickey. He’s almost positive he’s going to get in trouble later. And you wanna know the sad thing?

He doesn’t care.

Eddie is completely flip-flopping to either side of the pole. He’s simultaneously telling Richie to _“stroke my cock, you fucking bastard”_ while moaning, right after, _“yes baby, please don’t stop; it feels so good”._ Richie absolutely _does not _know how to read him. He doesn’t know if Eddie loves or hates him. He’s constantly kept on his toes. 

He _loves_ it.

He’s stroking the both of them so fast that his wrist hurts. He’s sure he’s going to feel it all the way down his arm in the morning. They’re both really close to the end. His free hand is squeezing one of Eddie’s hips. Eddie is still clenching onto his shirt—like if he lets go, he’s going to float away and disappear. They’re both sweaty with voices echoing—and all exteriors are cracked; all caution is completely thrown to the wind.

“Am I the best you’ve ever had?” Richie asks—and surprisingly, he gets an enthusiastic answer in response.

“_Yes,_ baby! You’re the best!”

And then they both come together—Richie burying his head in the crook of Eddie’s neck, and Eddie’s eyes clenching shut just as tightly as his fists are on Richie’s shirt. They stay like this for awhile—and Eddie even loosens his fists and replaces it with gentleness; pulls them close... 

And then he pushes Richie off him.

“Aww what, baby? Don’t wanna cuddle?” Richie teases. His hair is wild and crazy and going in every which direction—and from the glint in Eddie’s eyes, he can tell he thinks it’s hot.

Eddie’s already pulling his condom off and putting his shirt back on and hopping back into his pants. “Don’t tell anybody about this,” he warns again. He stands on his tiptoes so he can point at Richie, his finger directly in his face. “I’m _serious_.”

Richie puts his hands up in surrender. “Yeah, no, this is our little secret. Got it.”

Eddie seems to trust his answer. He cuts his eyes at Richie, but doesn’t say anything else as he grabs his suit jacket and leaves the office—leaving the former in there all alone.

Whenever the door closes is when Richie decides to situate himself and get dressed again—to throw away his trash, to fix his hair. But then he hops up on the desk to sit there for awhile, looks up at the ceiling that seems impossibly high. _Holy shit._ He grins. 

He wins their game.

[for now.]

And—he quickly realizes—he never found out what Eddie wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Richie: I’m dying to tell Stan


	5. man down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *tw: toxic relationship mention + violence*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *kicks open the door* hey i’m here i swear!!
> 
> i put this fic on hold for a little while bc i didn’t know where i wanted to go with it. but now i think i do! woohoo!! 
> 
> also, this was gonna be super smutty but apparently, i’m just in my feelings today?? hope you guys enjoy it still!

There’s a whirlwind of emotions going through Eddie’s head right now.

Yesterday, he was going to give Richard and Stanley the production bonus that him and Adrian talked about the other day. He was going to call them both in, one-by-one, because he likes to do promotions separately. He was even going to be nice. He was going to shake their hands and tell them good job, he really appreciates their hard work, keep it up.

But—looking in the mirror at the dark hickies on his neck—that _obviously_ didn’t work.

God, that fucking Richard. He hates—

No. That just isn’t true, is it? 

He doesn’t hate Richard. He actually (to his dismay, confusion, and slight disgust [at himself]) _really likes _him. And he can’t deny that the Headquarters are much brighter with Richard and Stanley around. The former is energetic and upbeat, charming and... ugh, funny. Rough around the edges, but Eddie doesn’t mind. The latter is sweet and neat and polite, very respectable, very hospitable. Everybody likes them. Bev and Don are always on the floor in hysterics when they come to give their reports; all the other assassins on their crew seem to think that Richard is funny, too. All the folks on Intel say that cutting drugs is not the only thing Stanley is good at; that he should join them in analytics.

And Mikey has always been cutting edge, razor-sharp in productivity... but there’s a... how would he describe it? There’s a gracefulness to him again. He seems lighter now, works cleaner now. Eddie knows it’s all just a roundabout way to say: Mikey has always been nice... but he actually seems _happy_ now. 

Sometimes him and Stanley can be caught in a corner, or a room—both smiling and laughing, Stanley in Mikey’s lap (or close enough to it) as Mikey puts sunflowers in his hair. 

Eddie is 

(jealous)

happy for them... _especially_ if it will boost their productivity and morale.

He would never admit this to anybody but Adrian—and even then, it would feel like pulling teeth—but all of this reminds him of that bastard, Juanito.

They had been in love. Or, more rather, _Eddie_ had been in love with _him_. 

He hadn’t been in love before. It was so nice, feeling wanted, for a little while. Him and Adrian were young and fresh to the game and naive. That’s what got him—he was naive. He was _weak_. He thought he could separate love from work. And he thought he would be able to find love in a life like this. 

You see that Mommy had to leave the life before she could meet Daddy. 

Juanito was their first dealer—before their dealer with seniority, and surely before Richard now. When he was 17 and tiny and overwhelmed, Juanito was 22. With his adult eye, now he can see that Juanito should’ve never been fucking with him in the first place. It was wrong. He was still a minor. He feels like he may have been...

(groomed)

...that other word makes him feel so _disgusting_. His naivety was taken advantage of. That’s all. But he had been in love with Juanito nonetheless. Or maybe he was just <strike>groomed</strike> conditioned to feel that way. 

But Juanito promised him the world. He told Eddie, that when he turned 21 (which, ironically, he just had his 21st birthday a few months ago), they would retire from the life and move from New York and go get a house by the countryside. But he was a liar. A filthy groomer creep cheater liar deceiver. He was a _liar_. 

He found Juanito was making all these promises to some other boy, too—who, to Eddie’s horror, _was even younger than him. _

(filthy groomer creep cheater liar deceiver I _hate_ you.)

So, Eddie killed him. He put a bullet right through Juanito’s chest on the left side, where his heart would be (_if_ he had one), and then in his little pea-sized brain. Then, he let the kid join his team... whose still with them now, part of Intel.

That’s why he acts the way he does. Men, including himself (and excluding Adrian and Mikey), are evil and worthless and _deserve_ to grovel at his feet. He loves hurting them. It’s what they deserve. 

But that’s not true, either, is it? 

Because there’s Richard.

What were those emotions that Eddie hadn’t felt in a long time—literal years—that caught him off-guard so badly? 

He’s _scared_. 

He doesn’t hate Richard, no—he’s scared of him.

Scared of getting close to him, scared of liking him. Scared of... of _loving_ him. Scared that if he gets too attached again, Richard will tell him all these promises and then leave him in the wind. He can’t do that again. He doesn’t want to love anybody again. But yet he does. That’s the only thing he wants. He just doesn’t want Richard to leave... like Juanito.

But Richard’s _not_ like Juanito—their similarities end with their tan skin; with their Latino lineages. 

Where Juanito was dark and somber, Richard is smiling and bright. Where Juanito was mysterious and reclusive (which, Eddie _used_ to find sexy—but looking back on it now, he finds pretentious), Richard is an open book. Juanito puts images in his head of the dead of winter—snowy and cold, trees bare and devoid of any color or leaves. Dead. Barren. Empty promises.

Richard’s like the spring. 

That’s why, when Mikey comes into the room with some very bad news... it pisses him off even more than finding out that somebody stole their drugs.

* * *

Mikey says: “Eddie, Adrian... Richie, _and_ my lovely Stan, are gone.” The way that he says it, and the way that his eyes are so dark and stormy, tells Eddie that they didn’t leave voluntarily

(thankfully)—

it’s foul play.

“Gone?” Adrian asks—and he must feel the annoyance

(and _panic_)

coming off Eddie in waves. “What do you mean, gone?”

Mikey shakes his head. “We’re not 100% sure yet. Jason and I are working as fast as we can.”

“Well,” Eddie starts, trying to keep his voice even. “When you find out whoever took them... tell them if they hurt even a hair on either of their heads, then I’ll send Michael to kill them.”

Mikey grins, dark and malicious. “Yes, Sir. With _pleasure_.”

Whenever Mikey leaves the room, Eddie and Adrian plop into their chairs—behaving like twins, already bouncing their legs in sync. To think that Richard’s annoying ass isn’t so annoying, he isn’t so bad, they had _so much fun _together at the party, and even though he was tipsy, he still looked at Eddie like he was the prettiest guy in the room. And how much fun they had yesterday... to think that he was just starting to get used to Richard. To think that he’s warming up enough to feel comfortable calling him Richie. To think all of this... and somebody is trying to take it away from him.

He’s fucking _livid_.

“This sucks, Ed,” Adrian is saying, and Eddie can almost barely hear him. “We can’t lose them. Not now. They’re our best slingers.”

“Yeah,” he replies—but that’s not the only reason he doesn’t to lose them, and he knows it. 

The ten minutes for Jason to swing the doors open of the office feels like ten hours. He’s short, like the two of them—so when he comes in, he smiles, looking them in the eyes. “We found out who has Stan and Rich,” he starts—and Eddie is quickly realizing that _everybody_ uses nicknames for them, they like them so much. “But I don’t think you’re gonna like who it is. The _good_ news is, though, that Rich and Stan are stabilized and look A-OK. The _bad_ news? The kidnappers are trying to lure us in.”

“We can handle that,” Eddie says, with confidence. “But who is it? Who took them?”

Jason looks at them apologetically before he says, “It’s Scott, guys. I’m sorry.”

Scott is their other dealer. In since he’s been with the organization longer, he’s supposed to have seniority over Richard. Well, he does in time with the organization—but he doesn’t in _ranks_. Because Richard’s productivity has been skyrocketing off the charts, while Scott’s have stayed the same. Eddie found out the other day that people are requesting Richard over Scott—and they’re requesting him by name.

His mind flashes to a conversation he had with Scott, literally just the other day. Scott had come up to him and Mikey (they were on their way to meet Adrian for tea hour). Scott said: _What is it with that dude?_

_What dude?_ Eddie asked. Mikey just tilted his head. 

_Richie, _Scott said. _I don’t think it’s fair how he just got here and he acts like he owns the place. Just ‘cause he’s good at slingin’ don’t mean nothing. How come you’re giving him a raise? I’ve been here longer! _

Eddie had laughed. _You just answered your own question, buddy. He’s good. _Really_ good. He’s been doing great, while your numbers have been in the fuckin’ toilet. He’s just—_

_It’s because he’s taking all my _business! Scott yelled, and Mikey instantly stepped in front of Eddie. _Huh, I bet it’s because you like him. What, you been sucking his dick? He been fucking you?_

In one swift motion, Mikey had took out his gun and whipped Scott on the side of the face with it—the latter took a knee, howling in pain, holding his ear. _Don’t you _dare_ talk to Eddie like that,_ Mikey snarled. _Have you lost your fucking _mind? 

_Maybe he has,_ Eddie said, and a little smirk played on his face. _This is sink or swim, Scottie. You know this. Keep up or get left behind. And also, man—you know what they say about assumptions: they get you killed._

It was all starting to make sense now. 

Scott is jealous. 

“Huh, that’s unfortunate,” Eddie says, trying his hardest to sound sad. “I actually really liked Scott. He was a good dude.” He shrugs. “Oh, well. Mikey, go start the car for me? And tell Bev and Don to come, too.”

The three of them—Eddie, Adrian, and Mikey—ping the location, are driven there, and arrive at the scene. They’re the only ones who get out of the car for now—Bev and Don are stalking in the background nearby. 

Scott is already waiting for them there. He’s tied up Richard and Stanley by their wrists and ankles (the latter having a face of _“not this shit again”_)—but neither of them look scared. Stanley looks rather annoyed... and to Eddie’s delight, Richard doesn’t even look _that_. Even though he has a bruise on his left cheek, he looks bored.

But they both light up when they see the three walk into the abandoned building. 

“Eddie Spaghetti! LemonAde! Lebron James!” Richie beams. “Fancy meeting you here!”

_“Mikey,” _Stan adds, a little smile playing on his face.

Scott makes a move as if he’s going to hit Stanley and Richard with the butt of his gun, but Mikey is faster—he already has his rifle pulled out and has trained it on Scott’s face, making eye contact, with no sign of backing down.

“If you touch my baby, I’ll _kill_ you,” Mikey warns. Stanley smiles and blushes. 

Scott instantly backs down. 

“What about _me,_ Lebron?” Richie asks, his voice filled with fake incredulousness.

“Don’t touch Richie, either,” Eddie demands. He knows how guys like Scott are: they try to find loopholes in shit you say. You have to make it _perfectly clear_ for them, or else they’ll get killed. 

“Oh, Eddie Spaghetti!” His eyes gleam and glitter with something that actually makes Eddie blush 

(you’re getting soft)

and look away. “My _hero!_”

“Listen, we can work this out,” Scott is saying. “Just give me the promotion, guys. And double it. That’s all I want.”

_“Double it?” _Adrian asks, and scoffs. “You really _have_ lost it, haven’t you?”

“That’s what I want. You give me double, I give you back these assclowns. Take it or leave it.”

It’s Eddie’s turn to scoff. “Bold of _you_ to be trying to give _us_ ultimatums—”

He doesn’t get to finish what he was saying—because Scott has suddenly careened to the side and has his gun pointed at Richard. The gun goes off—but Bev and Don are on him in a second, each coming in from opposite exit points with their guns already drawn. Bev shoots a shot and it goes straight through Scott’s knee, the sound deafening, and Don gets him on the other side, in the chest. Scott falls to the ground, trying to cough and let out a gurgled scream at the same time... but he’s smirking. 

“I shot him,” he gasps. “He’s gonna bleed out here with me.”

_“Richie!” _Stan screams. He scoots closer to him. Richard is also sprawled out on the ground... and he’s completely silent. 

There’s that bright flash of those annoying emotions that Eddie hasn’t felt in a long time

(please God just let him be bluffing he didn’t actually shoot him did he please don’t let him die _please God_)

as him, Mikey, and Adrian rush over to the rest of rest of the group. Eddie looks over to Richard, so still with his eyes closed and not moving—and even though he’s seen many people get shot and have himself shot many more... he still shies away from the sight of him. He instead goes to Scott—and the first thing he does is place his foot on his throat.

“You think you’re funny, huh?” Eddie doesn’t even realize how loud he is—Adrian would tell him later that he was almost screaming. “I told you not to fuckin’ touch him. You think you’re _funny?_”

“You’re still... you’re still taking up for him,” Scott gasps out. “A-after everything... I’ve done for you. You ungrateful... sons of bitches. Who... the fuck... do you think you _are?_”

Enough of that shit. Eddie decides he doesn’t want to hear anymore of that—so he grounds his foot on Scott’s windpipe, satisfied by the sound of him shutting the fuck up. But he answers anyway: 

“I’m Eddie Kaspbrak-Marino, bitch. _That’s_ who the fuck I think I am.”

Before he shoots Scott in the head. He feels the body go limp under him... and now that that’s over, he turns his attention to his people.

“Is he okay?” He tries to sound as nonchalant as possible, but a shrieky voice—who he faintly realizes sounds like his mother—is still firing off in his head.

(I knew this was gonna happen I just _knew_ it he’s dead and I liked him and that’s why I don’t get attached to people!)

“Richie?” It’s Stan. His voice sounds like how it did when they all first met him: a semblance of flat and even—but if you listen close enough, you can hear the shakiness. “Rich? Wake up, man. Richie?

Eddie can faintly hear Adrian sniffling. Even though he tries to masquerade it as just being sad because of business, Eddie knows that he really _does_ care. They both know. 

Mikey and Don stare in solemn, stunned silence. 

“I’ll go pick a flower,” Bev says moodily—and Eddie hasn’t seen her cry in years, but he knows that she starts acting like this when she’s about to. She picks a singular flower for their people who have died. She always has. 

But she can’t... oh, she can’t. That would make it too—

They all jump at the noise. Bev turns on her heels to face the rest of the group again. Richard is coughing... but there sounds like there are laughs mingled in between.

“Surprise,” he says—but it’s faint and distant.

“Oh, my God!” Stan exclaims. He’s not even trying to hide it now; he’s completely burst into tears. “Richie! You’re alive! Oh, God!”

“‘Course I am,” Richard replies—and evening though his voice still has that distant and floaty quality that Eddie doesn’t like, he’s still all smiles. “Just a little shaken up, is all.”

“Rich! Do you need First Aid?” Mikey is asking. “How bad did he get you?”

Richard shakes his head, and lets out more of his ghost laughs mingled in with coughs. “Nuh-uh. He didn’t get me at all. Lookit.”

He’s trying to take off his shirt—which has a wide bullet-mark through it—but Stan and Mikey opt to help him instead. He’s got a sleeveless shirt on underneath... and on top of that, a bullet-proof vest.

“I knew this was gonna happen,” Richard continues, still smiling. “Dude has _always_ had it out for me. He’s a lousy aim, but I didn’t wanna risk it.”

But goddamn, Eddie can’t remember the last time that he’s cried—maybe four years ago, when he found out Juanito was cheating on him, or maybe two years ago when Mommy died—_truly_ cried, and he doesn’t want it to be today. 

But even as he says that, his eyes are welling with tears—every bad, unsavory, emotion that he’s repressed for four years comes bubbling up to the surface of him in that moment, as he cups Richard’s face in his hands. 

“Surprise, Eddie Spaghetti!” Richard says—laughs again.

_This isn’t funny! _Eddie wants to yell at him. But he knows that if he yells now, it would be out of fear. _Why is everything a fucking game to you? Why do I care about you the way that I do? _

_Why do you make me like you?_

Instead, he blinks the tears away when he lets Richard’s face go. He looks around at Bev, and Don, and Mikey, and says: “Get them untied and loaded into the car, please. And put a blanket on him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adrian: lemon-ADE! Ha! That’s cute!


	6. the shift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome again, to..... toby’s late night uploads..... with...
> 
> bill and ben! bill and ben!

For the past few months, everything has been _great_.

Richie and Stan have been incredibly busy bees, just as before—but Richie notices that everybody in the Headquarters seems to know a secret that the two of them aren’t in on. Everybody’s been treating them so nicely—smiling, doing favors for them; generally just being light and airy.

Shit, _even Eddie_ has been being nicer to him lately, since all of the commotion with Scott (thankfully, he thinks, that bruise he had didn’t cause a scar on his face... if that’s even in the realm of possibility). Adrian has generally been nice to him, yeah—so he wasn’t even worried about trying to win him over much at all. He _has,_ however, been trying to win the affections and goodwill of Mr. Kaspbrak-Marino... as dangerous as he is, he’s still such a pretty boy

(the _prettiest_ boy). 

So, maybe that’s why everybody’s been nice: it could be the fact that he’s (seemingly) finally on Eddie’s good side, or it could be the fact that Stan and Mike now walk around the Headquarters, holding hands. 

It’s really starting to get cold by the time it happens—Richie doesn’t really know an exact wording for it; he just has a feeling... he calls it The Shift. But by the time The Shift happens, him and Stan are really having to bundle up in all of their best winter clothes. Richie hates it in New York; he hates being cold—he’s always wanted to move somewhere warmer. Like the West Coast. Maybe back to California. On one of these extraordinarily cold days, they were going to make their way up to the Headquarters... but it doesn’t seem like they’re going to have to. 

Richie’s been in the game for long enough to keep a burner phone, so he gets a message on that: 

**pretty murder boy: **Take the day off today. Hang out with your friends or something. 

—Eddie

Oh? Good deal! He thinks that’s _exactly_ what he’s going to do.

He pops his head into Stan’s room—and is slightly confused for just a split second when he doesn’t directly see him. He hears fumbling, however, and correctly assumes that Stan is in the bathroom.

“Oh, _Stanley,_” he calls out, hitching his voice up into a song-song. “Stan the Man _Uris! _What are you doing?”

“Getting ready for a date,” Stan calls back, and Richie frowns a little. 

“Oh. Okay! Nevermind, then. I was gonna see if you wanted to hang out with Bill and Ben.”

“Damn—I would, but I _really_ don’t want to cancel on Mike,” Stan is saying. “We don’t ever really get to go on dates...”

“No, I feel it,” Richie says, sincerely—even though he can’t even remember when’s the last time he’s been on a date. 

“Tell them I said hi, though. And that I miss them.”

“Okay!” he says, pleasantly... and then goes into his room to get ready himself.

Next to Stan, Bill and Ben are Richie’s best friends—all four of them went to the same college, all lost touch, all somehow came to the same city and reconnected... as if guided by fate. Not to mention that like Stan, Bill and Ben are _also_ gorgeous—Bill with his brunet hair (the same shade, now that he thinks about it, as Eddie’s), Ben with his sandy blond. Bill with his sharp eyes, as crystal blue as water; Ben with his sweet brown ones, as dark as a mahogany drawer. Yeah, they’re pretty—he doesn’t hang out with unattractive people. He’s shallow, what can he say? Aren’t we _all_, if even just a little?

Looks aside, they’re great dudes. And they know how to have fun. 

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks through the city. He turns a corner and crosses the street and ends up at a little coffee shop. And when he walks in, he sees his friend’s smiling faces. Bill even stands up from the table while he’s grinning. 

“Damn, Ben! Richie’s in the house!” Bill says, his speech still ever so slow and controlled. “It’s almost as if I’m seeing a ghost.”

“Eh, shut up,” Richie says, and snorts. “It hasn’t been _that_ long.”

“Yes, it _has_ been!” Ben chimes in—but he also stands up from the table, so he can pull Richie into a hug. Ben always smells like expensive cologne. Richie thinks he’s too broke to appreciate expensive taste. 

“Well, we’ve got some catching up to do,” Bill says. Then, he looks around, as if he’s now just noticing, for the first time, that Richie walked in alone. “Where’s Stan? I thought you were gonna ask him to come?”

“I did,” Richie answers. “But he said he’s got a date with his boyfriend. He said hi, and that he misses you guys, though.”

Ben and Bill both stammer out at the same time. _“Boyfriend?”_

“That doesn’t make any sense...” Ben is saying, and looks genuinely puzzled, “you’re right here, though.” And when Bill bursts into laughter, Ben laughs cheerfully and covers his mouth, too.

Richie rolls his eyes as dramatically as he can. “Fuck you. _Both_ of you.”

“Okay, okay,” Ben says, after getting his giggles under control. “Let’s go. I’m ready to drink.” 

* * *

They all leave the coffee shop and walk a little further into town, where all the bars are, and go to their favorite one. They’ve been going here consistently since they’ve reconnected, together, for almost three years now. Shit, they celebrated Richie’s 23rd birthday this year at this very bar—where the bartenders made him stand up on a chair, and gave him a Jaeger Bomb. They love this little bar.

All of them know how to put back some alcohol, surely. Bill doesn’t drink too much anymore (even at the infamous party that he was hosting, he only had a couple shots)—but Ben? _He_ knows how to fucking party—and he knows how to hold his alcohol well: the most dangerous combination that a person can have. 

Richie’s somewhere in the middle.

Bill is still nursing his first beer whenever he asks: “So spill it, Tozier. Why haven’t we’ve seen you around lately?” Then, with the teasing smile that only friends can give (or maybe a big brother), he asks: “You tired of us?”

“He’s probably started to get his dick wet again,” Ben slurs (but only a little), and ribs Bill in the side. He doesn’t talk like this whenever he’s sober, as sweet and polite as he is—but then again... as Bill and Richie are on their first (and second) beers, Ben is on his _fourth_. “Is _that_ what it is, Richie?”

Richie snickers a little. He instantly thinks of him and Eddie at Bill’s party; him and Eddie in that secluded office in the Headquarters. So he tries to answer as honestly as he can. “Ehhhh. Maybe a little?” 

_“What!”_ Bill exclaims. “Seriously?”

And then the both of them are talking over each other, clamoring Richie for more information—_Who’s the guy? How long have you been dating? Is it _actually_ Stan again? Oh no, wait; you said he had a boyfriend_—before Richie raises a finger up, and grins, and both of them fall silent.

Still grinning, all he says is: “Wanna see something cool?”

Against his better judgement—and he _knows_ this is against his better judgement; he doesn’t want to get them all killed—he calls them a cab, slips the secret phrase into easy conversation... and they find themselves at the door of the Headquarters. Bill has completely sobered up at this point, whatever buzz he may have had, and Ben has sobered up to the point where he’s only a little tipsy. Richie, again, is somewhere in the middle. 

“Where the fuh-uck _are_ we?” Bill asks, trying to whisper too fast, causing him to stutter. 

“Are you tryna kill us, Richie?” Ben chimes in, whispering fast as well, sounding very uneasy, and a little scared. 

Richie grins and shakes his head. “Nuh-uh. Least not intentionally, anyway.” Then, he gets closer to the door, and speaks a little louder now, so the person on the other side can hear him through the speaker: “Hey, Jason? It’s Richie.”

“Rich? Isn’t it your day off?” comes back from the other side. He doesn’t have to look back to see Ben and Bill glancing at each other in confusion. “Why stop by so late? Are you in trouble?” 

“Nah, just brought by a couple of _special guests,_” Richie says, and smiles sincerely enough.

Jason—even as smart as he is, probably thought he was joking, and talking about Stan and Mike—gets off the speaker and opens the doors for them. Richie sees the glowing red light on the door, which means they’re unlocked. 

He throws an arm around Ben’s shoulder, then Bill’s. “Let’s go, boys.”

“Whoa, this place is huge,” Ben is saying. “Look at the architectural make of—”

Richie didn’t even know that Bev and Don were going to be here at all today—so all three of them are surprised whenever the two of them both roll out, all dressed in black, guns already out and pointed. Ben screams... and Richie is _positive_ his tipsiness is scared out of him shitless, now. 

“Who _are_ these people?” Don is speaking, quickly. “Did they make you come here? We’re you kidnapped?”

Bill sounds angry—but he can barely get the words to properly damn him to Hell. “R-R-Richie, wh-hat the fuck _i-i-is_ this sh-sh-hit? You son of a b-b-bitch!”

Richie waves his hands in front of him—quickly, like a surrender. “Nonono! It’s nothing bad! They’re my friends!”

The furrow in between Don’s eyebrows slowly melts away... and him and Bev both put their guns down—sedately, quizzically. “Huh? Why’d you... bring them here?” Don asks slowly.

“Y’know what? I wouldn’t be able to you, actually. Sounded like a great idea while I was drunk. Doesn’t seem so great now.”

Don is smiling now. “You know Ade and Eddie are gonna be _pissed,_ right? They don’t like people knowing where the Headquarters are.”

Bev is smiling now, too—looking from Bill, to Ben, to Bill again. “Hello, Bill Denbrough and Ben Hanscom. I agree that you guys are not supposed to be here. But, at least you guys are _handsome._” 

Before Bill’s pale-white face can stutter out, _“How does she know our names?” _Ben’s flushed one, splotches of red and pink in his cheeks, slurs out: “Why _hello, _beautiful.” Okay... maybe he still _is_ a little tipsy, if even just only slightly.

Richie smiles. This is actually going a _hell of a lot _better than how he thought it was going to go. Nobody’s gotten tased or stabbed or shot. Bev and Don and Ben are smiling—and after a while, even _Bill_ is smiling, too. Good deal. 

But all their smiles are wiped off their faces when they whip around towards a couple of voices—one of them lets out a little squeak of surprise. And the _other_ one is yelling: “_Richie!_ What the _fuck_ is this this shit? You sonnafabitch!”

Eddie and Adrian are polite enough hosts, after all—so they don’t kick Bill or Ben out, in since they’re not bothering anybody (but they have to swear [read: at gunpoint] not to reveal to anybody else where the Headquarters are). Ben and Bev are distracted talking to each other on one of the couches (Bev is smiling and twirling her hair, so that must be a good sign). Bill and Don are on another, talking about whatever comes to mind: bikes, who they think is going to win the SuperBowl, showing each other pictures of Adrian and Bill’s fiancée, Audra. But Eddie has grabbed Richie by the arm, and drags him into another room.

“You are the dumbest fucking person I’ve ever met in my _life,_” Eddie says—but it doesn’t have any of his usual edge. He doesn’t seem mad, really; only just slightly annoyed. It almost puts Richie in the mindset of when they fooled around a couple months ago... almost puts an imagine in his mind of him bickering with a boyfriend.

He smiles.

“But I keep on your _toes, _Eddie Dear,” he says, and laughs when Eddie crosses his arms and shakes his head. “Admit it: you _like_ it. We’ve been playing this little game ever since we met, and you like it. We _both_ do. That’s why you killed Scott, isn’t it? If he would’ve killed me, then we couldn’t play the game anymore.”

And then—in some magical way that Richie can’t really understand, not even years later—he feels The Shift; sees it in the way that Eddie’s shoulders slump, hears it in the way that he talks. But even though he sees and hears and feels these changes, it still throws him off what Eddie says to him. Throws him off _badly_. 

He says: “No. I like _you,_ dumbass. That’s it. I like you, and that’s why you’re able to get away with even _half_ the shit you do.”

“You... _like_ me?” There have been only a handful of times that Richie has been absolutely speechless in his entire life—and this is one of those times. He’s been trying, for months, to figure out if Eddie likes him... or is absolutely waiting for the perfect time to murk him off. Shit, he threatened to murder his best friend and his baby sister—and even beat him up in a _bathroom, _for Christ’s sake—but he also called him _“baby”_; also pulled Richie close and cuddled him and took in the smell of his cologne, if only for a little while. And that whole Scott fiasco... when Eddie grabbed his face like that, and told Bev and Mike and Don to put a blanket on him—Richie _swears_ he looked and sounded like he was on the verge of tears.

He wants to repeat: “You _like_ me? _Really?_” But instead—trying to bounce back from the discomfort of being rendered speechless—he decides to grin instead. “_Really,_ now! Then why have we been wasting our _time,_ Eds? We’ve could’ve _been_ together by now. All cuddled up and cozy, like Stan and Mike, and we could’ve adopted a Pomeranian, and left this life behind, and moved together to California.”

Eddie’s mouth curls up a little at the corner; it’s not fully a smile, or even a smirk—it looks more like a sneer. “Don’t call me that shit. And _don’t_ fucking joke about shit like that.”

“What if I wasn’t joking?” Richie asks, still all smiles... but he doesn’t break eye contact, and he doesn’t back down. Eddie is actually the one to.

“You and Stan come in tomorrow,” he says, dismissing the subject completely, “and come in separately. Adrian and I wanna tell you guys something—and everybody already knows what we want, so we might as well get it outta the way.” His eyes glance up to Richie’s again, and stay there. “Don’t... _distract me,_ this time.”

“I won’t distract you unless you _want_ it, Boss Man,” Richie says—and throws his hands up in surrender (and grins) when he gets a glare in return. “I _meant_ to say: I’ll behave.”

Eddie doesn’t break eye contact until he turns around to leave. His arms are still crossed. “See you tomorrow. Take your friends home.”

Richie tries to use his sensibilities sometimes—and, using them now, he notices things about Eddie. Things probably influenced by all of the shit they’ve been putting each other through the past few months; things _definitely_ influenced by the change in their dynamic. By The Shift.

Even though Eddie glared at him, his eyes still flashed with something hopeful and excited.

Even though he dismissed the the idea of what Richie said being anything but a joke, color still rose in his cheeks—bright and flustered. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ben, whispering to Bill and Richie: yooo she’s got big titties  
Bill: never let this man drink again


	7. a soft spot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on tonight’s episode of toby’s late night uploads....  
sex.... and letting go of past traumas....

The New York cold has come with a fervent quickness that’s almost annoying. It numbs and freezes and chills.

But Eddie doesn’t too much mind—he likes seeing everybody in the Headquarters bundled up in hats and gloves and scarves. Everybody looks so warm and content. As much as he wants to get away from this life eventually and settle down someday, he still has (and always will have) a soft spot for New York. Everybody’s bundled up in their winter clothes—and, for a moment, they all almost look normal.

And seeing Adrian pull out his fluffy pink coat is always amusing, too.

The two of them are finally going to give those production bonuses, if Tozier doesn’t completely sidetrack him again. He’s learned his lesson from last time: he’s going to call in the one that actually has common sense in first. And then

(especially if he wants to live up to this title),

he’s going to call in the _troublemaker_ after.

When Eddie called him by his last name just now, that wasn’t the most accurate thing. Now was it? They’ve been such permanent fixtures around the Headquarters by now that Eddie has actually, _fully_, gotten used to calling them Stan and Richie. So, him and Adrian are expecting Stan at around noon—to which he pops by at around 11:45, ever so punctual. He’s dressed sharp, like he was always is: he’s wearing a red shirt and his hands are intertwined and a watch is on his wrist. He’s not the Stan that either of them had seen in their first impressions at all: he’s proven himself to be level-headed, analytical, polite and only slightly aloof—and very, _very_ smart.

He keeps his hands neatly folded at his waist—and he doesn’t stutter his eyes up to them (like how Mikey sometimes does, when he’s feeling particularly guilty). They swoop up boldly to their faces and he asks, smoothly: “I’m not in trouble, am I?”

“No,” Eddie reassures him. “Quite the opposite actually.”

Stan raises his eyebrows, if only slightly—and out of the corner of his eye, Eddie can see Adrian grinning, barely able to hold in the surprise.

Eddie continues. “Well, Stan—you and your _little friend,_” Stan smiles a little at this, “do really good work for our organization. So, we wanted to give you a raise. But—”

“But Mikey wasn’t having that, and he specifically asked you to be with him,” Adrian finishes, all of it rushed out, and it’s just as Eddie suspected. The suspense was killing him. “So, we’re letting you join Intel.”

“What?” Stan puts his hands up to his chest, not even trying to hold back his smile now—and Eddie notices how handsome a really big smile makes his face._ “Really?”_

“Yeah,” Eddie says, shrugging and smiling a little himself. Maybe his soul isn’t as dark as he thought, because he likes it when people are happy. 

“No more cutting drugs!” Adrian exclaims, cheerily, and his smile and body posture matches the mood of the room.

“Oh, well...” Stan is trying to start. “I, uh—wow, this is so...! Oh, my God! _Whew!_ I...” He takes a couple of deep breaths, even fans himself (sometimes the similarity between him and Richie is uncanny)—and then steels himself back to his general stoic disposition. “I’m extremely grateful for the offer. Thank you so much.”

“Oh, no problem,” Adrian says... and he’s grinning. “You should _really_ be thanking Mikey whenever you get the chance.” 

“Oh, I _will,_” Stan says back, and something that Eddie has never seen on his face—a smirk—gives him the impression that Stan likes to say _“thank you” _to boyfriends in unconventional ways. “I’ll do it right now.” He nods his head down at the both of them as a goodbye... then turns on his heels, curly hair whipping in his face, and gracefully walks back into the cold.

So, that’s out of the way: very polite and pleasant. Now it’s time for the one that Eddie knows good and _damn well _will cause him trouble. One that his brain tells him he’s dreading, but his stupid naive heart convinces him that he wants to see. 

* * *

Richie comes into their office, not nearly as bundled up as Stan was (but warm enough, Eddie supposes). His hair is curling out in every which direction on his head; his eyes, even though they’re magnified behind thick glasses, are wide and dark. He’s smiling, the dumbass comes in _smiling_, and his five-o’clock shadow adds to the appeal of making him look eccentric and beautiful.

“Hi, Adrian!” he chirps. And then, looking straight at him, that same smile playing on his lips, something fun and loving flashing in his eyes, Richie says: “_Hello,_ Eddie My Love.”

“Hi, Richie,” he answers back. It all feels like deja-vu. 

“So, we’ll just go ahead and tell you what we told Stan,” Eddie continues, after a couple seconds of silence, “and let you know that, in since you guys have been doing such great work around here, we wanted to—”

Adrian cuts him off, again—but this time, it startles him so badly that it makes him whip his head at him, and regard him with bemused horror. “—train you to be an assassin,” Adrian finishes. 

It seems like he’s not the only one whose been startled badly. Richie looks like somebody either told him that he won a million dollars (not from selling their drugs), or that somebody hauled off and slapped him in the face. For a rare time, again, he has no quips to fall back on; no jokes to hide behind. He seems so desperately like he’s trying to think of one, any one, any joke, any_thing_... but he’s coming up completely empty-handed.

So instead, all he says is: “Huh?” He shakes his head, pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, repeats it again. “Huh? _Really?_”

Eddie turns his head sharply back at Adrian, who isn’t laughing now—he just nods his head at Richie’s question with the solemn resolution of having made up his mind. “Yeah, really. Because I want you to... hold on; stay right where you are.”

Adrian stands up from his chair and walks over to Richie—and Eddie watches this with the stunned silence of somebody whose never even been exposed to the game, for instance—and the former has put both of his hands on the shoulders of the latter. They’re talking in hushed whispers. Richie’s eyes are wide, confused, maybe a little scared 

(drown in it Eddie you wanna _drown_ in it). 

They flicker up to his and stay there, for a couple seconds, before Adrian whispers something more to make him smile. Then, speaking again with a normal volume, Adrian finishes up with, “Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah,” Richie answers, grinning. “And I’ll do it _gladly, _too.”

“Great!” Adrian exclaims, beaming. He turns on his heels to face Eddie again—now he’s got two idiots smiling down at him... and _goddamn_ it, he can’t take it anymore with all this secrecy. He hates being kept out of the loop.

“Just what the hell is going on?” he asks.

Adrian grins and cuts his eyes to Richie and pats him on the back with one of his manicured hands. “Well, for starters, Richie wants to be trained. Woohoo! Go figure.”

“Okay...” Eddie says, and furrows his eyebrows, and shakes his head. “But that’s _not_ what we agreed on, Dree. Why did you change your mind? What the _fuck_ is going on?”

Adrian laughs... and Richie beams from ear-to-ear, joining in on the good vibes. “Okay, okay, I’ll spill. Well... there’s an empty slot for our assassins, so I thought that Richie would be—”

“Wait. No there isn’t,” Eddie says quickly, maybe talking a little too quickly. “There are no empty slots. Bev and Don—”

“But that’s the thing,” Adrian continues—and again, he seems like he’s holding a big secret and if he doesn’t let it out now, _right now,_ he’ll burst at the seams. “There _is_ an empty slot. Or gonna be, soon.” And when he holds up his hand, Eddie suddenly realizes what this is. He feels equal parts happy and horrified and betrayed, almost as if somebody slapped _him_ in the face. “Because Don and I are getting married!”

“Yay!” Richie yells. “_Woohoo! _Congratulations!”

“Oh...” Eddie says, feeling as if all of his speech and thoughts and movements are in slow-motion. “Yeah, congratulations, Adrian. Really, I mean it.”

“You’re not mad at me, are—”

“Does this mean you’re leaving me?”

And Adrian had to have known this was coming eventually... because he frowns and takes Eddie’s hands into his own. “I am, sadly. But you’re gonna do just fine on your own, Eddie. Hell, you’re gonna do _even better_ without me. You know I have faith in you, because I love you.” And, adding this with a smile: “Shit, be grateful. At least I’m getting you good company before I leave!”

They both laugh then. Eddie doesn’t know whether to feel the ghosts of his abandonment issues haunting him, or to feel wired and exalted for his friend. His friend, his best and maybe only friend in his entire life... the one that, even in college, Eddie was striving to have the same level of confidence and air as him; that even in college, Eddie looked up to, like a big brother. He decides that he feels a little lighter. Adrian’s not abandoning him, and he’s not doing this because he doesn’t love him. He just wants to be happy... and shit, Eddie wants to be, too. He decides that he’ll be okay. 

And, in some dim and off-handed part of his subconscious, he realizes exactly what Adrian just them up to do. He wants Richie to take Don’s place so he can make sure that Eddie’s safe. Protect him. Like a bodyguard. 

And maybe something else.

Stan and Richie haven’t just taken their new roles and acclimated to them—they’ve _melded_ into them. _Became_ them. The former has the keen eye and attention to detail that rivals the best and most attentive member in Intel. And the _latter, _with his quick wit and charm—and newfound aim—is shaping up to be quite the formidable assassin. Richie’s training seems to have made him a little more serious now—but just barely. He never, _ever_ forgets to smile.

It feels a lot emptier in the Headquarters without Adrian here. It feels... it feels smaller, somehow. The office that they shared looks bare without Adrian’s things sprinkled about; without the picture of Adrian’s Dad hanging next to Eddie’s mother. And even though they talk everyday still, it feels different—even if Eddie’s imagining it. Conversations feel so serious when, instead of being filled of gossiping or talking about work matters, now are filled with talks of weddings. But again, he’s happy for Adrian. He just misses him. He misses him a _lot._

But the only good thing about this... is that now, Eddie can drop all pretenses of winning This Game, without Adrian teasing him about it. 

And it seems like Richie decided that he was going to drop all of _his, _too.

They’ve been doing it everywhere—anywhere they can, and any chance they can get: on breaks, after missions, pressed up against walls or floors or washing machines. He thinks that neither him or Richie are trying to hide it... because everybody’s even nicer to Richie, (if that was even possible), because they _all_ know that he’s Eddie’s Favorite. Everybody’s right, though—Richie _is_ his favorite. He hasn’t had sex this good in... well, in his _entire life_. And the sex, he finds out, isn’t the only thing that he’s enjoying. It’s also the things that Richie says; the things that he does.

He and Richie somehow end up in his room—well, more rather, the specialized room that he had in the Headquarters for himself (the other for Adrian), not his private room in his apartment with all his things. But they end up in his room nevertheless. Even though it’s not in his apartment, it’s still His Room, per se.

He doesn’t know what makes him lead them here, just like he doesn’t know the reason for half of the weird things that he’s being doing and allowing for months now. Richie seems to notice, too; when he furrows his eyebrows and tries to speak, it’s like deja-vu _again_. 

“Ed—”

But Eddie cuts his off—again, he throws all pretenses out the window; all pretenses of trying to keep up This Game. So he acts on intuition, does what he wanted to do at the party where him and Richie first formally met, does what he would’ve done if he were a normal man, living a normal life:

He pushes Richie up against the wall, and he kisses him.

All that this has been is that same, running sense of deja-vu—because Richie responds back with an _“Mmph!”_ But even through his surprise, he still seems very exalted, and very amused—Eddie can tell by the way way Richie picks him up and throws him off the bed, and strips their clothes off, fervently, with slightly shaking hands. 

He’s excited. Eddie can also see it in his smile; he can see it in the way that his eyes look so bright and glittery behind his glasses. Eddie feels as if there are bumblebees flying through his rib cage or electricity going through his body... he’s excited, too. 

After foreplay (which Juanito _never_ did, and Richie _always_ does, Eddie notices) and condoms and lube—and they really start getting into it, Richie flips him over onto his stomach, and then onto his knees. Another thing that Eddie has noticed is that his new lover, again unlike the last, is very vocal... and he _loves_ to tease. 

But oh, God, it feels so good that 

(he’s drowning in it)

Eddie doesn’t even mind the teasing. He wouldn’t have minded it, anyway. He makes a concentrated effort to have authority in every other facet of his life—and the _only_ place he’ll completely and totally give up control, is in the bedroom. That’s one thing that Richie himself has picked up on—and quickly. He wraps his hand around Eddie’s neck and pulls his head up, so he can whisper to him from behind.

“You’re such a naughty boy, Eddie,” Richie is saying—and he can practically feel the smirk dripping from the tease. “You like beating people up in bathrooms, huh? You like scaring people?”

“_Yes_, Richie! _Fuck_ me. Oh, it feels _so good. Fuck me,_ Rich.”

“I never got an apology,” Richie adds, and if Eddie wasn’t completely spaced out in pure, broken ecstasy, he would’ve zeroed in on the fact that Richie sounds like he’s on the verge of giggling. “Apologize to me, you little tease.” He takes his hand from where it was resting on Eddie’s throat, and opts to pull hair instead. “Apologize. _Now.”_

“I’m sorry!” Eddie moans, practically screams, not caring if Jason or Stan and Mikey or anybody in the Headquarters hears him. “I’ll never do it again! I’m _sorry, _Rich!” 

“One more time.” He sounds like he’s really close to the edge. “Third time’s the charm.”

_“I’m sorry!” _Eddie is feeling so good that he’s on the verge of tears. He feels that same metaphorical dripping smirk from behind him; feels some type of shock go down the both of them, shuddering Richie behind him, and making _him_ shake all the way down to his legs. 

“Good boy,” Richie says, and kisses the small of his back. _Then_ he giggles. And then he pulls Eddie to his chest, after laying on his back. 

And y’know what—Eddie’s not against being held; he’s not against feeling small and loved, and he never has been. He just doesn’t want to get hurt again; he’s just so scared of opening his heart again and then letting someone else break it. Now that? That is something he has no control over. _Never_ will have control over.

But it’s not fair to compare Richie to Juanito—they’re not even _close_ to being the same. Especially with the way that Richie has him pressed to his chest (and he can feel his heartbeat). Especially the way that Richie smiles at him like this, and says: “You’re so pretty when you smile.” 

And even as though he’s trying to gain his control back... he smiles and shakes his head anyway. And he lays on Richie’s chest, feels his heartbeat and sharp collarbone on his face, takes in his scent of cigarettes and shampoo and faint cologne. 

“You wore me out, Eds,” Richie adds—but this time, he sounds spacey and far-out—and not only five minutes later, his eyes are closed and he’s snoring and his arms are still wrapped around Eddie’s waist, with no sign of letting him go. He’s snoring so loudly, Eddie thinks, not with annoyance, but with slight concern: _What does he need? A tonsillectomy? A fucking CPAP?_

He thinks: _He even looks happy when he’s asleep. Juanito always looked like somebody gave him problems, even in his dreams. Richie looks like when he got to Dreamland, somebody held the door open for him. I compare them all the time, even when I don’t realize I’m doing it. I’ll _never_ compare them again. _

And lastly, before he drifts off and falls asleep... he thinks maybe, _just maybe,_ it’s safe to love him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mike, to Stan: oh hell yea! C’mere, baby!


	8. scared together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: yeah i wanna make this 11 chapters   
my brain: how about you make it 9?   
me: ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ ! ok

Two really magical things happen—so quickly, that neither Richie, Eddie, or anybody in the Headquarters at first notices it.

There’s no contest on if Richie and Stan are respected within their fields. They’ve progressed—with alarming speed—and come to find out, Stan apparently manages his own little branch in Intel. Mike seems to love this; he eats it up—Richie can catch him on any given day, muttering about how proud he is of “my baby”, about how much he loves Stan.

Love. _That’s_ a strong word, huh?

But it’s _everywhere_, though: on top of Mike and Stan holding hands and butterfly kissing, Ben and Bill also come back to the Headquarters quite frequently now—and, to Richie’s slight dismay, Bill and Eddie have become quite the good of friends. And _Ben and Bev _have become a little more than friends, even if it’s just harmless flirting that lingers a little long.

Don and Adrian have officially tied the knot after being engaged for almost a year—and Richie is ecstatic for them (he’s become pretty good friends with Adrian, and Don even more so), but he can’t help but to feel a little lonely. Talks of marriages and forever leave a bitter taste in his mouth because they make him think of Sandy. He would love to get married, and become a father, no matter how much he tries to play it off. They could do it together.

Him and Eddie.

Its’s been a year since Don and Adrian have been gone for the organization and for a whole year him and Eddie have been... still playing This Game. They’ve dropped the pretenses of it, yes, they’re less subtle about it now—but they’re still subconsciously in this deadlock. He’s not gonna lie: from the moment he saw Eddie at that party, he already had it made up in his mind that he wanted that pretty boy. He’s the prettiest. The toughest, the coolest. The most stubborn one about what he wants; the cutest with his dimples and slightly lopsided smile. 

He’s in love with Eddie. 

He has been for a while

(from the moment I saw him)

—but Eddie seems to have hang-ups about love. He’s almost sure (but maybe it’s just wishful thinking and he could be wrong), almost certain, that Eddie’s in love with him, too. But he doesn’t seem to want to... _let him in. _Eddie, as much as he doesn’t want to show it, seems scared. Which is understandable. He’s scared, too. 

So, with all that being said:

The first magical thing is when Stan comes up to him and grabs him by the shoulder. He twirls him around so that they’re facing each other, a mess of curls whipping into both of their faces. And Stan says: “You _do_ know what people are saying about you, right?”

“That I’m handsome?” Richie answers easily. “Oh, but Stan, I already knew _that_.”

“The only person that thinks you’re handsome around here is Eddie,” Stan says, and a bit of a smirk is playing on his face. “Whom, speaking of which, is the reason why people are talking about you in the first place.”

“_Oh! Really?_ Why? What are they saying?”

Stan leans close into his ear—so close, he can smell the fragrant, but pleasant, scent of his cologne. “People are thinking Eddie’s gonna put you in Adrian’s place. You _are_ his favorite, after all.”

Richie grins and bats his eyelashes. “Am I, now?” 

“I would hope so,” Stan says, and raises an eyebrow, “seeing that you guys screw each other on the daily.”

“Hourly,” Richie grins. “It’s _hourly,_ Darling.” But then the grin falls a bit when he adds: “No, but seriously, though—if that’s true, that’d be cool and all, but... I don’t really think I want that.”

“You don’t?” Stan echoes, and when Richie looks up at him, he sees a flash of uncharacteristic shock and surprise in his face. “Why not?”

“Because the stupid boy can’t read cues,” Richie says... and then he throws his head back to laugh. “I don’t want ranks, man! I want _him!_ That’s all I’ve wanted! Like, I stole that suitcase because we needed the money. I did everything _else_, because I wanted to see Eddie.”

Now Stan looks a bit startled. “Seriously? You almost got us killed because of a fucking _crush?_”

“You almost died for yours’!”

“And that all links directly back to _you_.”

“Well, this was a good talk, Stan the Man,” Richie is saying, and he can’t control the fact that he’s giggling. “But I shall ever have to bid you adieu. I have some work to do.”

* * *

He finds Eddie in his office, like he usually does—and he’s in street clothes today. And guess what it is? A Coca-Cola crop-top (that when he bends down or over or even shuffles just a bit, Richie can see his midriff), and a pair of warm, black leggings. How’s _that_ for irony?

He’s out of uniform, too. He’s grown so accustomed to wearing the all-black attire that it actually feels weird and foreign to not have any black on. He walks in that office with skinny jeans and a Motionless in White t-shirt on and a red plaid shirt over it; the ones that Bill also likes. And Eddie takes one look at him when he walks in, and scrunches up his nose.

“What?” Richie asks. He’s grinning.

“You did that on _purpose_, didn’t you?”

“What?” Richie asks, again, the inflection changing completely, to fit his genuine confusion. But Eddie looks just as confused—in fact, he looks badly startled.

And whenever Eddie is actually able to shake whatever feelings off and fill him in, he bursts out laughing from the pure coincidence and fate of it: “You’re wearing the same damn outfit you had on when we first met.”

“Really? I didn’t even notice,” Richie answers, honestly, and his eyes are twinkling. “But guess what, Eddie? You are, too.”

And there’s something so cute about how Eddie looks down at his clothes like he’s never seen them before, how hard he blushes, how he looks so badly startled again that it looks like somebody slapped him in the face. He even tries to refute it. “No, I’m not. I was wearing something different.”

“Nuh-_uhhh_. You were wearing that outfit there, I guarantee it.”

“How do _you_ fucking know?”

Richie grins even wider. “Same way you know what I was wearing, and I don’t remember.” He goes ahead and decides to bite the bullet; go off his legendary fourth skill that he’s really good at: taking a shot in the dark. “I hate to be this guy, though, but... _what are we?_”

Eddie blushes (so red, Richie is afraid—if only for a few seconds—that he’s going to pass out). “What are we?” He echoes. “What do you mean, ‘what are we’?”

“Okay, so here’s the deal: we’ve been fooling around for almost a year and we’ve had chemistry since we’ve met and I really wanted to kiss you at that party? And I wanna go on a date, if _you_ wanna go on a date. And we can just go and enjoy ourselves and act like normal civilians. You down?”

“You—?” Eddie starts, closes his mouth and cuts himself off, then tries to start again. “You... that won’t work, Richie.”

“_What! _Why not?”

“Because we’re _not_ normal civilians,” Eddie is saying, and something is flashing in his eyes—maybe it’s fear or anger or pure adrenaline. And now, he’s floundering, trying to come up with excuses, deflections, anything—like a fish, or a siren, washed up from the sea: “We’re criminals. We can’t just go out and do shit whilly-nilly. What if somebody sees us in the restaurant, and they say our names? What if, uh, the _police_ are there? What if—”

“C’mon, Eddie,” and Richie says this with the upmost sincerity of his heart, of fondness and longing... and instead of sounding like play-whining, it almost sounds like pleading. “Let me love you.”

_“Fine!”_ And maybe he’s just imagining it now, but it sounds like Eddie’s voice cracks; his eyes are a little too wet and bright. “Okay, fine.”

So the good thing is: Eddie actually has a lot of fun on their date. They both do. They played tennis (which Richie finds out he is absolutely _terrible_ at), and then go out to eat, and hold hands in in the same outfits that they met in—it’s almost like a restart. It’s almost like they just met and removed all of the things in-between... and Richie can tell that for the first time in probably a really long time, Eddie feels like a normal dude. He knows so because Eddie is _smiling_. 

It’s the best thing in the world—better than any of the suitcases he’s ever stolen, better than any close-call, better than any rank. 

“I’ve never actually been on a date before,” Eddie tells him at dinner, and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Richie can tell, again, that for the first time, he’s scared of being judged. He knows so because Eddie is trying to avoid eye contact with him... and his face is _really_ red. 

“Really?” Richie asks—but he’s not trying to poke fun; he’s genuinely confused. 

“_Yes, _really.”

“What about with that Juanito dude?” Richie asks—and now, he is smirking, now he is poking fun. And Eddie seems to take the bait. 

“Man, _please_. The only thing he ever did was annoy me,” Eddie is saying, but he’s smirking, too. “Sorta like you. But _you_ brought me on a date, so you’re doing something right.”

“So I’m _better than him?_” Richie asks, leans up against the table, grinning, his eyes gleaming. (He’s even bouncing up and down in excitement... and Eddie rolls his eyes in good fun.) “There’s more where that came from, baby. We’re gonna do _a lot_ of new things together, if you let me.”

And that’s the second magical thing: Eddie lets his guard down, and finally, _fully, _lets him in. 

Richie does a lot of things that he thinks are commonplace for a relationship, but seem to blow Eddie’s mind from the sheer sweetness and compassion and _love_ of it: they hold hands, Richie likes to cuddle, and—Richie can be a romantic guy when he needs to be—gets roses and officially asks Eddie to be his boyfriend. And, even though he vehemently keeps with the notion that he doesn’t want to be in charge of the organization, tells Stan and Mike and everybody in Intel that he doesn’t want to do it... Eddie is able to sweet talk him into doing it, anyway. When his Eds is sweet like that, he’s sure he’d be able to get him to do _anything. _

_I need you to die for me, _he can imagine Eddie saying. He can imagine himself saying back: _Sure, baby! Is there a time that’d work best for you?_

He can tell from the look in Eddie’s eyes when they’re laying in bed together and he makes all these dreams for them and promises for them, that Eddie is not just scared. He’s _really_ scared. Richie knows that he’s been through this before—that before, there was a guy who told him all of these same dreams and promises, and didn’t keep them. And he’s really scared, too. In fact, he’s scared shitless. He’s scared that he’s going to make these dreams and promises that he _definitely_ has intentions to keep—but he’s going to get too far over his head and love Eddie too fast, too hard, propose too soon... and he’s going to come back one day and find out that Eddie’s gone.

But, he prides himself on remembering two things: 

1.) They are not each other’s exes, and 

2.) He’d rather them be scared together than scared alone. 

And he guesses that’s the _other_ thing that goes with it: Eddie didn’t just let down his guards and fully let him in, but he also fully let _Eddie_ in, too. And with them finally letting their guards down, finally being vulnerable—with no hard shells, no (excessive) wisecracks, no deflection—Richie can tell that for the first time in a long time, they (_both_ of them) are finally happy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adrian: the cops? *laughs* bitch, when did we ever care about those?


	9. the reprise

Noah walks into the room with good news and bad news, even though she can tell by his face that he only thinks it’s bad news.

He says: “Amanda, I’ve got some good news. And I’ve got some bad news. Which do you want first?”

She’s sure that anything good ole Noah Boa is gonna tell her isn’t going to be anything too bad. He’s as sweet as can be, even if he is a little uptight. “Lay the good news on me first, dawg,” she says, her smile easy. And when he tells her everything she needs to know, she’s not just happy... she’s _ecstatic_, and very amused.

But let’s just start from the beginning.

Amanda’s life is really cool—she’s spent her whole life with her Dad and Daddy (who sometimes, she calls Father for fun) in sunny California. She’s small with freckles and brunet hair and big doe eyes that make people say she looks exactly like her Daddy—but she’s Dad’s girl, through and through. She’s got his sense of humor, and quick wit and charm, and they like the same things—even though “it’s not like it was in the Eighties, my Dear”, he’s still partial to this new-age rock and roll. 

She has a very special, but _very different_, dynamic with each of her parents. Dad, if you couldn’t tell, is the laid-back father who let her curse and practice on his guitars and call him Richie (sometimes, when Daddy wasn’t around. When she still lived with them, she’d go through the house yelling, “Richie!” and he’d yell back, “Amanda!”) Daddy, even though he’s a lot stricter, and a little too overprotective for her liking, is still nice and fun and let her do the cool things... within reason. She loves them both. She doesn’t know what she’d do without them; if she had gotten a different set of parents. She’d be a different person.

But she didn’t know this until she was a teenager, but her Daddy—well, both her fathers, really—was a dangerous man. She also didn’t know this, until she heard it through the grapevine: Daddy’s original surname was Eddie Kaspbrak-Marino, and his mother—her grandmother she never got to meet—had ties with the Mafia. And Daddy reigned at the top for years, because when Gran died, he was next in line for the throne. 

That blew her mind.

But Daddy had wanted to settle down, start a family. He met Dad (who he affectionally calls “That Idiot”) after he and Noah’s Dad had swindled their way into the organization... and somehow, he found his way into Daddy’s heart, too. They got married when Daddy was 24, (and Dad was turning 27). He was a Tozier then—so far removed from the life that he didn’t want to live anymore. 

“He made me all these promises that, honestly, I didn’t think he was gonna keep,” Daddy has told her, more than once—but she loves to hear the story of how they met over and over again. “He told me we were gonna leave New York and move to California and have two kids and get a house by the beach. And I always waved my hand at him, like ‘whatever’, because I thought he was full of shit...” And his eyes will water up with tears, every time, when he finishes. “...but he proved me wrong, Mandy Bear. For 27 years, he’s been proving me wrong.” 

She’s known Noah since middle school. He was born in Georgia, moved from Florida, and he’s an only child. When they met, she thought it was weird that he had two last names, Hanlon-Uris, until she realized that he had two dads, too. That’s when she found out that his Dad is actually best friends with her Dad—whom, even though Noah is biracial, he looks exactly alike. She took one look at him, and decided that they were going to be best friends. And so they have been, ever since. 

But when her and Noah turned 17, they found something weird taped onto her front door before her parents got home—and something neatly folded into Noah’s mailbox. She had been scared at first, she didn’t know what to do, and she had looked into Noah’s face for answers and he had looked just as confused. They were notes, identical notes, that said:

**COME HOME TOZIER AND URIS COME HOME**

“What do they mean, ‘come home?’” Noah had asked in his dry, matter-of-fact way. “If they mean back to Florida, then I’m fine with that.” 

“You can’t go to Florida, dummy,” she had joked, even in her fear. “Because I’ve never been and don’t wanna go because of hurricanes and shit and that means we’d be apart. I can’t bear to be apart from you.” And Noah had blushed, but he didn’t say anything else.

They had asked their parents what it meant—and her Daddy and both of Noah’s parents looked so badly startled that she thought they were going to die. But her Dad had laughed and laughed until he was in tears... and looking back on it now, she doesn’t know if those were genuine tears mixed in with the ones from laughing so hard. 

“My Dad got mad later,” Noah had told her, “and my Daddy cried.” 

“Yeah,” she said, with no hint of joking in her voice then. “My Daddy did, too.”

What their parents had told them (each separately, of course. “It’ll do you some good to be away from your _boyfriend_ every once in a while,” Dad teases), was that this was exactly what it sounded like. A call to come back home. And by _home_, they didn’t mean Florida, and they didn’t mean San Andreas, where Amanda and her folks lived before they moved to LA. They meant New York—somewhere that the two of them had never been before in either of their lives. 

“I ain’t going to New York,” Noah had said, and crossed his arms. “I’m staying here in California. New York ain’t got nothing for me.”

But Amanda Tozier had been intrigued—so intrigued, that it frightened her. What could be in New York? Was this actually meant for their parents? 

_No,_ she had thought, _our parents were all at work. These had to have been put here this morning, right after Noah and I went to school. _

So why did her and Noah have to go?

All of the grapevine-Mafia shit had been a rumor up until that point in her life, mostly by other kids who said that their parents had bad run-ins with her and Noah’s parents. But when she sat down and asked her Daddy, he confirmed everything. He even said that Uncle Adrian had called him and that told him that her cousin DJ (which, they’re not _really_ cousins, but they’ve known each other all their lives, so they’re cousins just the same) had gotten the same note. It all meant the same thing.

“You guys are next in line for the throne. They want you guys to come and take over. But I don’t want you to do that, Mandy Bear,” Daddy said. “I _really_ don’t you to do that.” 

But when she grinned and her eyes had twinkled (which her and Dad have dubbed The Idiot Gleam), she had looked at him and said “But do you _think_ I can do it, Daddy? Think I have what it takes?”

“I _know_ you do,” Daddy said, and the finality of how he said it almost shut her up. He looked away from her and said, “I still don’t want you to do it. But I’ll let you make that call, because I know you can do it.”

She had smiled, and the life just called them in.

As for now: 

She’s 21 now, turning 22 in April—the long, dark, curly hair that imprinted her in people’s minds is now short and in a similar cut to her Daddy’s. Her and DJ’s office have four small framed photos on the wall, behind the desk, of each of their parents. They’ve done this without even realizing that their own parents had done the same thing, over 20 years ago.

But they’re just picking up where their parents left off. 

Noah is dressed in grey, like the Intel wear, and his own curly hair is pulled back away from his face. He’s got his arms neatly behind his back. He says: “Well, so the _good_ news is, we know who’s been causing all the electronic interference.” 

And by “electronic interference”, what Noah _really_ means is “somebody is hacking into all our servers and is fucking shit up.” So Amanda is really excited that he knows who it is. 

DJ (which is short for Don, Jr.), asks: “Oh? Who is it?” He asks so in his guarded way, trying not to let his inflection get too high, trying to mask his own excitement. Whoever it is, is going to be in a _rude awakening._ They’ve caused quite a bit of stir around here in the Headquarters—and DJ and Amanda already know, without saying it, how they want to deal with whoever this is. They’re just going to get BJ (which is short for Bill, Jr.) and Katherine Hanscom to wipe this motherfucker—

Noah raises his eyebrows, breaks her from her thoughts. “Do you want the bad news? I _really_ don’t think you do.”

“Come on, Noah Boa! Yes, we do!” She slumps herself dramatically to the left, making DJ chuckle and shake his head. “The excitement is _killing me!_”

“Yeah, c’mon Noah,” DJ adds, and Amanda can hear the smirk in his voice. “Don’t be a tease.”

“Okay,” Noah says, and sighs. And maybe she isn’t ready for this bad news, because it’s _really bad,_ and it makes her jittery and wired up for the rest of the day, but not in a good way. Not in a good way at all. It throws her off badly. 

“The _bad_ news is: it’s Roman.”

Surely, it can’t be the same Roman. Is Noah talking about the Roman who she hasn’t seen in two years, the Roman who moved away that she loves and misses with all her heart, the one she misses so badly, she just wants to hug and kiss his cheeks until he tells her to stop? 

Is he talking about the Roman who, after graduating high school, moved to go to college states away, the one who doesn’t pick up the phone when she calls, even though she has ways to know it’s the right number?

Is he talking about Roman Tozier, who looks just like Dad, even with matching eyes magnified behind glasses and black, curly hair? The one who, whenever they would go out, wouldn’t be assumed to be Dad’s son but instead mistaken as his brother? The one who moved away and doesn’t call their parents and Daddy calls her crying all the time and tells her _Mandy Bear, your brother never calls, it breaks my heart? _

Is _that_ the one he’s talking about?

It has to be.

So she sits in stunned silence for a little bit, feeling herself getting transported back in time, feeling phantom hair down her back that she wants to sweep over her shoulders... feeling Roman wrap his arms around her and hug her, feeling the frames of his glasses on her collarbone. Hearing him say: _I love you, Mandy! You’re the best sister ever! _while their parents laugh and watch from the porch.

She can feel Noah staring at her—patiently, _gently_, waiting for her response. She can feel DJ’s eyes boring holes into her, eyes filled with apprehension and maybe fear, waiting for her to say something, _anything_. 

All she can say is: “Like, _our_ Roman?”

“Yeah,” Noah says, and sighs again. 

Now, it’s time for her to re-gather her composure. “Well, I’ll be damned. Baby Bro finally wants to Put On a Show. So we’ll give him a show, alright. Do you know where he is, Noah Boa?”

Noah checks his notes. “I was able to track his location, and he’s in Idaho. His status isn’t moving at all, or anything. But, I’m sure he’ll start moving soon. Because I received this today.”

He pulls out a piece of paper, gracefully goes over to DJ and Amanda’s desk, gently sets it in front of them. Even though she hasn’t seen him in years, it’s unmistakably Roman’s handwriting. It simply says:

_Meet me in Maine, Mandy. _

_With all my love,_

_—R. T. _

“Hm,” she says, purses her lips, almost smudges her red lipstick. “Well.” She gets up from the desk and walks around, paces the floor—DJ and Noah still watching her. She stops mid-pace, and smiles as if she just got a new and novel idea that she hadn’t already been thinking. 

“Oh, I know!” she says, excitedly. “Let’s go pay Baby Bro a visit! I haven’t seen him in _sooo long._ We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

“Yes, you do,” Noah says, smirks a little. He turns on his heels to go set up the arrangements for the three of them to head to Maine, somewhere they have all been before, a handful of times... when he stops in his tracks and looks back over his shoulder. 

“Oh, and Noah? Book five tickets for me, if you don’t mind. I want BJ and Katherine to come, too, in case Baby Bro is only _pretending_ to be happy to see me.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Noah says, and throws a smirk over his shoulder. His eyes are dark and full of loyalty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we’re done! thank u so much for reading! ♡


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